The Shadow: Final Shadows
by DarkMark
Summary: In 1949, the Shadow has the ultimate battle against his archfoe Shiwan Khan. But even if he survives, he faces another challenge, the likes of which he has never known.
1. Chapter 1

**The Shadow: Final Shadows**

By DarkMark

Part 1

The Shadow and other characters in this story are property of Conde Nast Publications. No money is being made from this story, no infringement is intended.

Even in 1950, there were some shadows.

One of them was cast by the Empire State Building as the man and woman looked up in the general direction of the top five floors. They were, of course, difficult if not impossible to see from the street angle.

"Think you'll ever meet him again, Lamont?" said the woman.

The man, who wore a brown fedora, looked up for a few more moments before replying.

"I would hope not, Margo. His methods are so different from mine. We only worked together those few times. I think we both knew that if the contact was prolonged..."

"He'd have to try to bring you in," Margo finished.

Lamont nodded, briefly. "And that I could never allow."

The woman, a brunette beauty in a lavender dress that scarcely touched the top of her knees, tugged at his arm. "Isn't it about time we had a talk about something else?"

He looked at her and proceeded in the direction she was taking him. Their car was in sight, only a block down the street, and the rush of people paid them no more mind than any of the other obscure millions of New York civilians that wore down the pavement that morning. "Well, what?" he asked. "Haven't we been talking all morning long? And most of the night before that?"

"Not about this," said Margo. She was marching him briskly to the town car, the sort which dated back to the early Thirties but which was kept as updated under the hood as his men could manage. And then some.

"Margo, what-"

"I'll tell you. Inside," she said. The chauffeur was standing by the door, even though his face had New York Cabbie writ large upon it. Moe smiled and threw open the back door for them. Margo practically shoved Lamont inside. Then she got in and slammed the door shut. Lamont noted her sigh and the set of her jaw, and the fact that she was not looking at him.

Silence.

"Well?" he said.

"Well, Lamont," she said, looking straight ahead, "I'm pregnant."

To his credit, his jaw didn't drop as far as she thought it would.

"Margo, I-"

"Yes, I'm sure, and yes, we did take precautions as we always do, and no, I don't intend to do anything about it except have it." She turned a scornful look upon him. "Is that all right with you, Boss?"

She saw a glint of something hard in his eye and wondered how far she dared push it. But even with him, it had to be gotten through.

"How long have you known, Margot?" said Lamont, softly.

She arranged her dress over her knees as much as she could manage. "Probably for the last three weeks. But I've only been certain for the last five days. I told you I was going for a checkup, Lamont. I just didn't tell you why."

Lamont Cranston nodded, as sagely as he could manage.

"Of course, we can arrange for you to spend your confinement upstate," he began. "There's any number of doctors I can engage. The facilities will be more than adequate. I'll see to it, and we-"

"Stop it." She lay a gloved hand on his arm, firmly. "Lamont. I want us to be married."

"Married." The word was barely a whisper on his lips.

"Yes. Is that such a foreign concept to you? You've heard of the custom, I'm sure, in your long studies in the Orient."

"I don't care to joke about the Masters, Margo."

"I don't care to joke about this, Lamont." Her eyes were blazing. "This isn't a hypnotic illusion you can waft away with a snap of your fingers. It's not some fool with a fancy name you can put in front of your .45's. I'm going to have a baby, Lamont. It's going to be our baby. It will bear your name."

"Margot," he said, earnestly. "We have much work to do. So much still remains ahead of us."

"Not as much as there used to be," she said. "We're getting older, Lamont. Even with what the, the Masters gave you, and you gave to me. There's others to do what we did."

"No one could do what I did. Not even Savage."

"It's been twenty years and more, Lamont," said Margo, clutching his forearm as hard as she could. "You have to get off the treadmill somewhere. I'm giving you the place to step off."

"Did you do this deliberately?" There was no mistaking it. In him now, she saw the trace of his other-self, the shadow of its hardness. "Answer me, Margo."

"Oh, Lamont." She released his arm, shook her head. "Do you really think I'd trap you, like some, I don't know, some heroine from a cheap romance novel? It just happened, Lamont. It did. Do you doubt me? Do you think I'm lying to you?"

He shook his head no, and his mouth twitched once at the corner. "No. Not you, never. But...Margo...my God. I'm not ready to be a father, a...husband..."

She grabbed his lapels before she knew she'd done it. "Well, who the hell is, Lamont? Do you think I'm ready to be a mother? I never took any courses in it. I was too busy learning how to do other things. Like how to disguise myself, or shoot guns, or do judo. Do you think you're the first man this has happened to, Lamont?"

"No, of course not."

"Or that I'm the first woman?"

Lamont rubbed the back of his neck and shot a glance through the window separating them from Shrevvy. He wondered how much the driver had heard, but trusted him not to spill what he did. Anyway, the speaking tube wasn't open yet. "You're not giving me much of a choice, Margo."

"How much of a choice do you think I've got, Lamont?"

"Even less," he admitted. "It would be so much simpler if you'd just agree to have the child and let me find an adoption agency."

"No," she said. "This is your child, Lamont. Mine, too. I'll raise him with you or without you. But I want to raise him with you. Do you know why?"

"I would imagine," he said, "because you love me."

She nodded, and her expression softened more than it had since she had entered the car. "And what about you?"

"If you're asking if I love you, I should think that's beyond question." He glanced at her briefly, then looked away.

"You have to say it, Lamont," she said.

"All right. I love you. Does that make you happy?"

"Not if you say it as though you're on the gallows."

"I'm sorry."

"I know, darling," said Margo. She reached out for his hand, and was gratified that at least he didn't pull away. "I know this is hard on you, as well. To a degree."

"Oh, yes," he said with no little sarcasm.

"Well, you don't have anything growing in you. I do."

:"Damnation, Margo, what do you want me to say? As you've said, it's been over twenty years. Would I have stayed with you, or you with me, if we didn't feel something for each other?"

"Yes," she said. "Twenty years. Twenty years we've spent all over the world, chasing this man or that, risking our necks for so many times I can't even count them, Lamont. Getting shot at. Fighting. Killing, sometimes."

"Killing, a lot of times," he said. "But only those who deserved the killing."

"I couldn't disagree with that, Lamont. But I'm glad I didn't have to pull the trigger. Not too many times, anyway."

"I couldn't have chosen a better woman to be an agent," he said.

"How romantic," she said, with a sarcasm that dwarfed his.

His eyes branded her as he turned his gaze on her. "You knew what kind of a man I was when we became involved, Margo. You, more than anyone else in the organization, knew."

"I know, Lamont," she said. "Have to admit that's part of the reason why I loved you."

He looked a bit more at ease.

"There's just one thing, Lamont."

"Should I ask?"

"I'd feel better if you did."

"All right, then," he said, determinedly. "What is that 'just one thing'? Tell me?"

She placed her hands on her knees. "I'm not sure the other you feels the same way about me."

"What do you mean? We're one and the same, he and I. Just two different guises, two different roles."

She shook her head and swallowed, hard. "No. You have no idea how different he is from you. When you put on the ring, the hat, the cloak...that's when I have someone else to deal with. That's when he possesses you."

"He's no more than what he has to be."

"But he isn't you," she said. "Most of the time, I don't know what he is."

Lamont looked at his hands. "Do you know. Sometimes, I don't know, either."

Margo studied his face, gently. "That's as close as our conversation's gotten, today. I think that's a good sign."

"Is it?"

"I think so." Her hand stole around his. "Almost makes me think you're coming around."

"To what?" His hand was almost passive in hers. "To diapering babies, to helping a pimply-faced teenager with algebra homework, to having one of my cars totalled in a drag race on a country avenue? To having my money spent and my time taken up by something I hadn't even figured into my life's sum? And, Margo, where would he be in such an equation?"

"Well, isn't that more for you to answer than for me?"

"Margo, we have an organization."

"You have one."

"It doesn't matter. It's more than him, more than the two of us. They depend on me, and on him. The decent people of this city, of this country, depend on us as well."

"Oh, Lamont," she said, softly. "Such an excuse. 'The world needs me.' The world can always find somebody else. But I can't find another father for my child."

"Not this one, anyway."

She let his hand drop. "I'd hoped, Lamont. I'd hoped you wouldn't be this way about it. But I suppose I knew that you couldn't be any other way."

Lamont grabbed her upper arm, firmly. "Margo, you're not giving me enough time. You've sprung this thing upon me wihtout warning, and you expect me to come to a decision that will, well, affect the rest of my entire life. In a way...in a very important way...it's a choice that will have more impact than what yours entails."

"Oh. Of course," said Margo. "I don't have anything that can compare to fighting masterminds with stupid names like the Fifth Napoleon or Mox or Gray Fist or Yellow Jaundice. I'm only going to carry around a child for nine months in my body. That's not like shooting people."

"Damn it, what do you want me to say?"

After a long pause, she said, "If you don't know, then I suppose there's nothing you can say. Goodbye, Lamont."

Margo threw open the door. He grabbed for her arm, but she pulled away. "Margo, wait," he commanded.

She didn't look at him as she got out of the car and trotted down the street.

"Margo!"

He was half in, half out of the car. Shrevvy looked concerned, but wasn't saying anything. She was already lost in the crowd. He thought of following her, even thought of using the ring, though there wasn't nearly enough darkness to be found to use all of his equipment. For a long time he stood there, one hand on the door, one foot on the curb, drawing looks from passersby.

Lamont heard Shrevvy's voice. "Mr. Cranston? D'ya think we oughtta try an' find her?"

He favored Moe Shrevnitz with a look. "No. No, Shrevvy, it's not..." He straightened his jacket. "Margo, Miss Lane has made her decision. Take me...take me home."

"Okay, boss," said Shrevvy. "If you'll get back inside, maybe?"

Cranston stepped back in the car and shut the door. He tumbled back against the seat and didn't focus on anything as Shrevvy moved the car into traffic. Where would Margo go? To whom would she turn? When would she see the light of reason and return?

And he thought of how true and focused his other self was, how he could probably find an answer to these questions in a very short time, or could disregard them as being of little imporance in his war against crime and evil.

He also thought of how hard it might be to see the light of reason, or any other sort of light, in the shadow.

-S-

It was a new age, to be sure. A new era of superhard steel alloys and television sets and United Nations debates and pocketsized paperback books and hydrogen bombs and an Iron Curtain that divided one side of Europe from the other, and didn't look like it was going to be lifted anytime quickly.

Everything was shifting. He knew the Russians, knew them for what they were, as well as any man of the West possibly could. He had not expected the alliance to last even as long as it did. And after the Axis was destroyed, he of all men knew that Russia would be the new enemy. But there was little he could do about it. Even with the powers he possessed.

Not more than a year ago, China had fallen to another brand of the same ideology. He had known its chief when the man was still operating out of caves in the hillsides. To be sure, operating in that land would be difficult now, if not impossible.

He also wondered how it would affect the one who was possibly his greatest enemy. Several foes had faced him more than once, but none so many times as that one. The only other living heir of the Masters, the one who had mastered some skills he had not, just as he had learned much that the Chinese one did not know.

So far, his knowledge had proven superior. But only to a degree, and only just enough to bring him victory by a slim margin. It sounded like a storybook cliche, but when one was facing guns and bombs and other instruments of death and torture, that slim margin became tangible, perceptible, a raft of salvation. Safeguarding his own life was hard enough, in the face of his foe. Keeping the lives of his agents safe in such a threat was, at times, more than he could manage.

Was Margo right? Was it, indeed, time to hang up his great slouch hat and cloak, and leave the battling of evil to younger, fresher men?

Nursing a sherry and looking out the window of his penthouse room, Lamont Cranston already knew the answer.

Not so long as there were still men such as Shiwan Khan.

-S-

Dr. Roy Tam dwelt less in the shadows now than he had in earlier years. The man to whom he owed so much rarely called upon him for services these days. That was fine by Dr. Tam, as he had a wife, two children, and a respectable Chinatown practice to attend. He aged less well than his master and his master's lover, and that was agreeable to Dr. Tam, since such things were unnatural and not meant for many men on this side of the veil.

Nonetheless, there were still precautions that were taken. As he parked his green Studebaker a half block from his dwelling, Tam was cautious to note the flag on his mailbox. If nothing had gone wrong, his wife inevitably raised the flag on it before she got home. If something bad was in the wind, or the man in the shadows had called, it was left down. Even if she was out, she made sure to raise the flag before she had gone.

It was down now.

Tam didn't like guns, but he liked to have one available. It had, unfortunately, become a necessity. He took a .38 from where he had it clipped under the seat of his car and left on the street side of the car, going around the back, headed down the alleyway of his home. He thought of calling the police, but wanted to have something more substantial to report than that his mailbox flag was down.

As stealthily as he dared, Dr. Tam managed to get over his back fence, curse himself for not providing enough cover with the well-arranged garden and its multiple pools in back, and make it to a back window. He chanced a look inside, from the bottom up. Only an empty room in his study. The window was locked. He'd have to loosen the screen from the bottom, break the glass, and hope he wasn't making as big a fool of himself as he suspected.

But he had seen many things working for the master of the shadows. He knew there was much danger in the most mundane of settings, even in an empty room.

Tam unlatched the bottom of the screen, checked for scratches that would have signified someone entering by this way, and was satisfied they had not. He brought back his gun in preparation of tapping it against the window glass.

Hands appeared to yank open the window.

Hands appeared to grab him by the gun hand and the other arm and to yank him inside the house.

Before he could react, a karate blow to his wrist disarmed him and another hand was placed over his mouth to stifle his cry. Two Asiatic men of great strength and ruthlessness had him, and his feet were barely touching the floor as they held him.

With the efficiency their master demanded, the two men hustled Roy Tam through the house and into the spacious den, where he saw a tableau that both terrified him and reassured him. The terror came from seeing his captor, more of his men, and his wife and children gagged and bound to chairs.

The reassurance came from the perception that they didn't seem to be harmed, just scared out of their wits.

The master of the interlopers was known to Roy Tam. He had faced him before, several times, at the behest of his own master. It became obvious why Dr. Tam had been chosen as a target.

The Golden Master, sitting in one of Dr. Tam's favorite chairs, looked unhurried. He was dressed in a golden robe and slippers and looked comfortably in control of the situation, which he was. He tented the fingertips of his long-nailed hands.

"Good evening, Dr. Tam," he said. "I wish you to give a message to Ying Ko."

-S-

Burbank had sent a signal that lit a light in a certain place in Lamont Cranston's home. From a special phone with a dedicated line, Cranston spoke a single word in a voice not his own: "Report."

Burbank gave his report. After he was finished, Cranston paused only an instant before giving a command.

"Harry Vincent, Cliff Marsland, and our core squad are to meet with me within an hour at Point 5B. We will discuss the matter further there. Tell them who is involved, and tell them not to repeat it. That is all."

Cranston hung up the phone. Then he went to another one, called the faithful Shrevvy, and said, "We're going out tonight." That was all he needed to say.

Then he opened a well-hidden door within the room, and shut it behind him. It led to a passageway wherein were stored many essential things. Including a large slouch hat, a black cloak, a red muffler, a pair of .45 automatics, and other things he had found useful in his business.

He never should have let Margo out of his sight. True, she was not a prisoner, but he had made many enemies in his time, and not all of them were dead.

Yet.

Now she had fallen into the hands of one of his foes. Or at least he claimed she had. Whether true or false, he had violated the home of Dr. Tam, and hurled a challenge at the one he called Ying Ko.

The challenge would be answered, as they both knew it would be.

Despite the situation, despite the peril to Margo and his agents, and, admittedly, to himself, the man in the darkness did a curious thing.

He laughed.

He laughed softly at first, then built to a mocking crescendo, a laugh that signalled no mirth at all. A laugh that might have been heard if one could have placed a hidden microphone in the bowels of Hell.

Shiwan Khan would have what he desired, and more than that.

And the Shadow would have the blood of Shiwan Khan.

To be continued…


	2. Chapter 2

**The Shadow: Final Shadows**

by DarkMark

Part 2

Cliff Marsland had been a gangster in days past and was widely regarded to be such now. The thing about it was, nobody knew of any jobs he'd pulled in twenty years. Some regarded the big man with suspicion, but not too many called him on it. He'd mash your face into the bar where you were sitting if you did it in a tavern, or into the nearest brick wall if you did it on the street.

He'd buy you drinks, he'd listen to your stories, he'd give you advice, maybe, and then he'd leave. God knew where he went after he left. Some men guarded their talk when he was around. Others bragged to him. If he was a stoolie, nobody could find any evidence of it. No evidence was good enough for five men who just suspected him of being a snitch one night. They took him out and braced him. Within the hour, Marsland was back in his old haunts. Nobody ever saw the five men again.

So Cliff Marsland was drinking his favorite brew at Blackie's that night, his head slightly below the level of cigarette smoke that miasma'd around the room, when Harry Vincent burst through the swinging doors. He was dressed too well for the place, and the sideways glances he got indicated such. He didn't seem to care.

"Cliff Marsland," he said. "I'm looking for Cliff Marsland. Is he here? Has he been here?"

"Over here, swell," said Marsland, turning his head. "Who wants to know?"

"Me," said Harry. He started making his way to the bar. "Gotta talk to you, Marsland."

The barkeep looked nastily at Vincent. "You want to talk, be decent enough to buy something, pal," he said.

"Scotch on the rocks," said Harry. He seated himself beside Cliff and said, "Got a job. A job for us all."

"Who's the jobber?" asked Cliff, playing his part. He liked Harry well enough, but he liked to make him squirm.

"No names," Harry replied, as the barkeep plunked a drink in front of him. "You ought to know better."

"I know better 'n to take on work 'thout I know what I'm gettin' into," Cliff said, laconically. The two of them were drawing more attention. He didn't know if that was bad or good, and really didn't care.

"Got a cab waiting, Cliff," said Vincent. "Come with me, or don't. Now."

"After I finish this," said Cliff, and upended the stein.

A mustachioed gent in a pin-stripe suit materialized beside Marsland. He was looking at Harry as he said, "This guy givin' you trouble, Cliff?"

"Nah," said Cliff, wiping his mouth. "I'm givin' trouble to you." He smashed the guy across the face with the stein.

By the time the guy had fallen on his kiester, a party of four from several areas of the bar were on their feet and headed towards Cliff and Harry. Vincent had time to say, "Why in hell did you do that?"

"'Cause I got a reputation to uphold," said Cliff, matter-of-factly, and got off his stool to grab one guy who held a sap, lift him overhead, and toss him into two others. Harry, for his part, ducked a punch before he could manage to fully get off the stool, and repaid his attacker with a blow to the gut. The guy spewed rum over the bar and part of Harry's coat.

Within seconds, Blackie's was host to one of the better bar brawls of the year. Bottles, chairs, fists, and feet were employed with precision and force. Guys from one end of the room pounded guys from the other end, then switched up and administered the same to those from their own end. The main objective was to be the last guy up, but to get out before Blackie lowered the boom on you for messing up his place.

Harry and Cliff were holding their own, trying to punch their way to the door. Cliff had grabbed a wooden chair and was swinging it in an arc in front of him as he moved forward, bashing barflies too slow, too drunk, or too dumb to get out of his way. Harry Vincent defended Cliff's rear and moved in his wake. He crumpled a couple of dollars into a ball on the way and threw it behind the bar for his undrunk drink.

But they didn't quite get to the door.

Pin-stripe, his face bleeding a bit where Cliff had hit him with the stein, had pulled a .38 from his coat and didn't look happy at all. He was standing just inside the batwinged doors. His gun was trained in Harry's and Cliff's direction, and the two of them stood still.

"Don't move," said the guy. "Any way but down." His knuckle whitened on the trigger.

A pair of black-gloved hands came from the darkness behind. One grabbed the gun, forcing its bullets upward into the ceiling. The other tightened about Pin-stripe's throat. The man's face showed surprise and not a little terror. He tried to angle his head back to see who was grabbing him.

It didn't work until he was falling down, an instant away from unconsciousness.

The eyes he saw made him swear off drinking and Blackie's forever.

The men inside barely saw what had occurred. They saw a pair of gloves come in, squeeze, and put Pin-stripe down for the count inside of three seconds. Then he was gone.

Harry looked at Cliff. "I think we better go," he said.

"Let's," agreed Cliff.

The two of them stepped over Pin-stripe's fallen form and were out the doors a few seconds before Blackie could recover enough to start yelling, "Hey! Hey, come back here!"

The guy waiting for them in the cab looked patient, reading a Racing Form. They got in and were gone. This kind of stuff happened enough, in his tour of duty.

The only unusual thing was the Boss making an appearance like that.

This thing had to be important stuff, for sure.

-S-

The journey in the cab ended at the Cobalt Club. Harry and Cliff, who were hardly typical of the clientele there, were about to be turned away when Lamont Cranston appeared at the door. "They're with me," he said, and the doorman looked as though he wished it was his night off.

Cranston smiled at the two of them and made small talk as he hustled them into a back room which he rented for times such as these. The enemy might know about this; in fact, he probably did. But if he wished to strike, the Shadow dared him.

"The Master will speak with you in a moment," said Cranston.

"We'll be waiting," said Cliff. Both of them were pretty certain that Cranston was one of the Boss's identities. But he had so many guises he could assume that none of them was certain who the Shadow really was, and sometimes they suspected he had forgotten it also.

The tall man left the room. Harry stretched himself after the door closed. "This ever get to you?"

"All the time," said Cliff. "But it's better'n what I used to have."

"I suppose," said Harry. "But I'm not as young as I was when I started this thing."

"Hey. You see any of these wrinkles here goin' away?" Cliff pointed to the side of his right eye. "We been doin' this for almost twenty years. I age a lot worse than the Boss."

"Me, too," said Harry. "Still, I owe him. I owe him a lot."

The room darkened. Neither man flinched, but both of them became more aware.

"That is gratifying to know, Harry Vincent," said the voice of the Shadow.

Harry shook an Old Gold from a packet, stuck it in his mouth, and lit up. It helped. Even after twenty years, the Boss still gave him the willies. He wondered if this time would be the time that the ember of his cigarette would pick out the Shadow's features. But he knew that the Shadow was not seen when the Shadow did not wish to be.

"Margo Lane has been captured by Shiwan Khan," he continued. "She must be returned quickly, and without harm. The enemy has also struck at Dr. Roy Tam. His arrogance presupposes a trap. It will be your job to detect and spring the trap, and mine to turn it back on the trapper.

"At present, we know nothing of Khan's ulterior motives. But it is unthinkable that he would only be motivated by revenge against us. We must learn what his plans are, and thwart them. And this time, it must be once and for all. After this, either Shiwan Khan will never rise to plot again...or such will be the fate of the Shadow."

It was a long moment before Harry dared to say, "Margo."

"Yes," said the voice from the darkness. "Fortunately, Miss Lane does not appear to have been spirited out of the city by plane, train, or ship. Our contacts have made certain of that. She could, conceivably, have been taken away by car, but most likely Khan remains within the city. It will be our duty to ferret him out."

"In Chinatown?", asked Cliff.

"A possibility, and one which must be checked," the Shadow answered. "Harry, you and Cliff will go with Dr. Tam. He has a few leads which must be checked."

"He still wants to go out, even after what's happened to his family?" Harry was incredulous.

The Shadow turned his full attention upon his agent. In the light of his cigarette, Harry could see two deadly eyes before him. "He wants to go out because of what has happened to his family. Any more questions?"

Harry Vincent knew the Boss well enough to know that when the Shadow asked that, questions were exactly what he didn't want. "No," he said. "Not right now."

"Good. The two of you, be off. Be careful. Be aware...the Shadow will be with you when you most need him. This audience is ended."

With that, the lights came up. Harry and Cliff blinked, their eyes adjusting. But they were able to tell that there was no one in the room save themselves. It did not seem humanly possible for a man to have left the room as quickly as that, without even the sound of a door shutting.

But there were men, and then there was the Shadow.

"Come on," Harry said. "Let's get the hell out of here."

-S-

Commissioner Weston had been in office too many years for some folks' liking, but even they had to admit to his efficiency. That was why, despite the griping of opponents about his staying in office longer than Roosevelt, he retained his post.

Through most of those years, he had known the man who was sitting before him today. Lamont Cranston looked more worried than he ever had before, in Weston's estimation, and he had good reason to be.

"So the last time you saw Miss Lane was when she ran away from you, Lamont?"

Cranston leaned both hands on the walking cane he held before him, as he sat. "Exactly, Commissioner. Approximately 4:25 last afternoon."

Weston nodded. "Pretty observant of you. Most people wouldn't be able to pin it down closer than half an hour. Why do you think she was kidnapped?"

"I don't know. I have enemies, but I don't know which of them might have done it."

"Any jealous business rivals? Anybody you might have angered, recently, in any way?"

"No. None recently."

"Why did she run away from you, Lamont?"

Cranston looked up. "Margo announced that she was pregnant. We had trouble coming to grips with what we would do. So she ran away. I was hoping for her to return within the day."

The commissioner looked at him evenly. "I see," he said.

"What does that mean, Commissioner?"

"Are you sure this was a kidnapping, Lamont?"

"What would you call it, Commissioner, when someone leaves word with a friend that he has your lady?"

"Well, she might have left you and gone off with somebody else," said Weston. "Much as I hate to say it, this might be a scheme. She and another party might be planning to bilk you for ransom money. Out of spite."

"That is not the case," said Cranston. "That is not possible." The man looked at Weston with a note of terrible rage. The commissioner was convinced that, if somebody wasn't telling the truth, it wasn't Cranston.

"Okay, Lamont, calm down. I just wanted to bring it up as a point. It's happened to better men than you or I, and nobody believes it can happen until it does."

"There was nobody else," said Cranston. "I am sure of that."

"Did they say why they wanted her?"

"No."

"Did they say what you were supposed to do?"

"No."

"Then it doesn't make any sense."

"It does," said Cranston, "if somebody wants to lure me into a trap."

"I thought you said you hadn't made anyone angry."

"Not recently," admitted Cranston.

Weston sighed and rubbed his temples. "Lamont, this is going nowhere fast."

"I'm sorry."

"Are you being straightforward with me? If you know something that's relevant to this case, and you don't come out with it, withholding evidence is the least of your worries. It might keep us from finding Miss Lane."

"I can assure you, Commissioner, that nothing occupies me more than finding Miss Lane right now. She's bearing my child."

"Correction, Lamont. She's bearing her child, until and unless you and she are married. Wouldn't you say?"

Cranston kept silent.

"So you claim that Dr. Roy Tam's house was invaded by a couple of Asiatics last night, and that they left word Miss Lane was kidnapped."

"That is correct."

"We've got corroborating evidence from the Tams on this. The place was broken into, the wife and kids were held captive, and they were let go and the perpetrators left shortly after Dr. Tam arrived and they gave him their message."

"Right, so far."

"And you claim not to know who might be behind this."

"That's my claim, Commissioner."

Weston paced up and down his office for a moment or two. "Lamont, I don't have to tell you that Chinatown is one of the toughest places for my men to work. No matter how hard we try, I doubt we've been able to fully eradicate the influence of the Tongs down there. Call them the Triad or whatever you want, it's like trying to ferret out the Mafia. You might get some of the soldiers, but you won't get the one in command, except once in a very long while. And as for the Tongs, I doubt we've gotten any of them."

"You may have gotten more than you know," said Lamont.

"I doubt it," admitted Weston. "Miss Lane gets kidnapped just after she says she's pregnant. Somebody breaks into Dr. Tam's house to deliver a ransom announcement, which isn't a ransom announcement. It damned well sounds like somebody's after you, rather than Margo."

"It does, doesn't it?"

"And your association with Dr. Tam is what, Lamont?"

"We've been friends for some time," said Cranston. "They know us and we know them."

"Did Dr. Tam treat Margo in any capacity that you know of?"

"No."

"I have to ask this. Was Margo involved in any way with narcotics?"

"Absolutely not."

"If she had, it might help make sense of this thing. There's still enough hop joints down there to supply eight counties all by themselves. Lamont, will you let me do something?"

"What's that, commissioner?"

"Will you let me have some of my men tail you?"

"No."

"And why not?"

"Because I don't want them to."

Weston stood in front of Cranston and gave him a stern look. "Which sounds as suspicious as hell to me."

"I can't help that."

"If you really were playing straight with me, Lamont, you'd let some of my men be there in case you were threatened, or in case you were contacted in person by the kidnappers."

"I can't help that."

"You can, damn it. And you're acting like you don't want Miss Lane to be found."

"That's a preposterous claim, Commissioner."

"Is it?" Weston shoved his face near Cranston's. "You have a pregnant woman kidnapped with whom you've been keeping company for about twenty years. You probably have information you're not divulging. This whole thing stinks of organized crime. And yet you haven't cooperated with me beyond the barest minimum."

"I'm sorry, Commissioner."

"Not sorry enough. If Miss Lane turns up dead, how sorry do you think you'll have to be?"

"She won't," said Lamont.

"How do you know? Especially if you're withholding information?"

"She will not," said Lamont.

Weston turned away. "All right, Cranston. If that's all you're willing to give me now, I can't do anything more than put out an APB, circulate her picture, and get the boys in the Chinatown squad working on it."

"Thank you, Commissioner."

"Don't thank me," he said. "Unless I get more to work on than I've got, we'll probably never see her again."

Cranston silently got up and left. After he was gone, Weston hit the intercom.

"Yes, sir?" asked the secretary.

"Get me Joe Cardona," he said.

In a minute the detective was speaking to him. "What's up, Commissioner?"

"Lamont Cranston is leaving the building," said Weston. "I think he knows a lot more in the Lane case than he's telling me. I want you to put a couple of men on him, and not have him know."

"Will do, sir," said Cardona.

Weston flipped off the intercom and sat back in his swivel chair. Lamont Cranston, Margo Lane, and he had been friends ever since the Thirties. Why the hell was he acting that way? Especially where Miss Lane was concerned? Didn't he have any feelings, for the love of Heaven, or, more specifically, for the love of Margo?

How could you know a man for almost twenty years, and still end up knowing so little about him?

-S-

Margo Lane awoke to the chill of her cell.

There was little in the way of furnishings. Just a cot chained to the wall with a small, inefficient mattress on it, a blanket, a shielded electric light in the ceiling, and a toilet which was in full view of the barred window in the door. She took it all in at a glance and fought down what nervousness she had. Margo had been kidnapped, threatened, even assaulted before. She was not a hysterical movie heroine. She was tough, when she had to be.

She had a feeling she'd need to be at her toughest now.

Margo pushed her face to the bars. Little to be seen out there, just a hall painted gunmetal-grey without even guards in sight. The hall turned a bend in either direction about forty feet from the door. The floor was tiled. There was a cell to the left of her, but only a blank wall before her.

"Hello?" she called. "Can anybody hear me? Hello?"

Within ten seconds, a guard appeared at the end of the hall, holding a box in one hand and a small earthen jug in the other. Margo was not surprised to see he was Asian. The four who had taken her down and drugged her were Orientals, as well. Make that three; she'd racked up one of them during the fight.

The man came to her cell door and held the box and jug where she could get to them. He kept his fingers well away from hers. Staring daggers at him, Margo took the objects from him. The box had to be turned sideways to get it through the bars. When she had it through, she popped open the lid and found a hot meal inside. Rice, vegetables, probably chicken and beef inside. It might be drugged, but she was past giving a care. The jug contained water, which was what she expected.

"I don't suppose you could tell me anything of what this is about?"

The man stood against the opposite wall, folded his arms, and waited.

Unperturbed, Margo went to her cot, sat down, and began to eat. The only utensils within were chopsticks. Evidently her captor had a high enough opinion of her not to expect her to try and stab herself with them. She'd learned how to eat with the sticks long ago, and soon had the meal finished.

She took a long drink of water from the jug, which tasted flat but not bad.

At that point, she sensed another presence. Carefully, she set the jug and box on her cot and sidled up to the door. From the left, she peered through it, cautiously.

"There is no need to fear, Miss Lane," came a familiar voice. "You will come to no harm."

Margo clutched the two chopsticks in her hand fiercely, as she would a knife.

"You," she said to Shiwan Khan.

"Your humble servant." The Golden Master made a slight bow.

"If you were that, I'd order you to kill yourself," she snapped.

"That would be unproductive," said Shiwan Khan, and paused. "And also unnecessary."

"Unnecessary?" parroted Margo. "What in hell do you mean by that?"

The mastermind in the hat, flowing golden robe, and slippers stepped closer to the cell door and paused three feet away from it. Then he spoke again.

"I am dying, Miss Lane," he said. "I wish the West to die with me. But before that, I will see the death of the Shadow."

To be continued…


	3. Chapter 3

**The Shadow:**

 **Final Shadows**

part 3

by DarkMark

When Margo caught her breath, the only thing she could do was parrot what Shiwan Khan had said: "You're dying."

"Indeed," said Khan. "I have contracted an inoperable form of cancer. The results, I fear, of investigation into the realm of nuclear weapons...but that is neither here nor there right now. I face a death of considerable pain in some months' time, or a quick, clean death not long from this day."

"Khan, listen to me," said Margo. "The Shadow knows men of science, men of medicine. He can get you to specialists. They can see about your cancer, ease your pain."

"And you think I do not?" Khan looked at her as a teacher would look at a backwards child. "I have been to more physicians and men of knowledge than you could imagine. The verdict was the same: I am dying. This being the case, it is meet that I end my life with the realization of my own ambition."

"By...killing the Shadow?"

"Not only him, but myself, and your nation as well. Possibly more than that. It will remain to be seen how efficient my methods are, before they are neutralized."

She sighed and gripped the bars. "Tell me."

He considered his words, then spoke. "I have in my employ biologists of no mean talent, Miss Lane. One of them made a very important discovery. He synthesized a disease organism that is, as far as we have determined, incurable. It is one hundred percent fatal, quick-acting, and spreads like wildfire. Once unleashed, this malady can decimate the population of a continent. Human and animal life alike. Where once was the noise of humanity, machines, livestock, pets, will only be...silence."

Margo shook her head. "You're insane, Khan. Please, let me help. We can..."

"You can do nothing!" Khan's voice was suddenly sharp, and his eyes seemed to pierce her like icepicks. "You are my prisoner, and my bait for the Shadow, and that is all you are. I am supremely sane, Miss Lane. No madman could plot, coordinate, and execute the operations I have accomplished, and that which I am about to. No fool could go against the Shadow as many times as I have, and live. This is an omen. Ying Ko well knows that I am the one enemy he cannot defeat. He well knows that I am the one foe who will destroy him."

"No," said Margo. "He is the one man capable of destroying you."

"Then why has he not done it? Why have I, instead, played him like a puppet in this war?"

"That's not the way it's gone before," Margo smiled. "Every time you've gone against him, he's thwarted you. Beaten you. Smashed all your plans, killed your men."

"True," acknowledged Khan. "But only up to this point. You see, Miss Lane, in a war, one must take the long view. An army may lose battle after battle. Yet, by luring the opposing forces into a trap they cannot avoid, the war itself may be won."

"It hasn't been yet," said Margo. "And the Shadow is a better general than you."

"Is he, now?" Khan turned away. "That remains to be seen. But I have my agenda. I am an actor, he is the reactor. Which of us has more power? The one who acts, or the one who merely seeks to prevent? I have had time to plan and prepare. He acts on a crash basis, pulling together his forces at the last moment, trusting to luck as much as to skill. He well knows, as do I, that one day his luck must run out. That day, Miss Lane, is here.

"That which is in my body, and that upon which I stand, Miss Lane, are one. America is the cancer of the world. In this nuclear age, it holds virtual dominion, balked only by Russia's similar firepower. With the United States no longer in the picture, the balance of power will shift again, and correct itself. A new world will be born."

Margo slapped the back of the door in frustration. "You're going to mass-murder over a hundred million people! You'll damn the ones who survive to Communist tyranny! Khan, damn you, haven't you got the slightest feeling for human beings?"

"Of course," he said. "I feel much for those who will survive. But in order for the herd to live, ofttimes there must be a cull. Whether you understand or not is immaterial. Goodbye, Miss Lane." The heir of Genghis Khan began to walk away.

The woman in the cell turned around herself, found an object, went to the barred door window, and threw it.

Casually, Shiwan Khan whirled and caught the hurled water jug on the fly.

"I will have another one given to you," he said. "If you break it, there will not be a replacement."

She couldn't even curse him as she watched him walk away.

-S-

There are secret masters in Chinatown, as in other ethnic enclaves of America, whose business has nothing to do with spirituality. One of these was Hung Fat Lee, who commanded a host of warriors who never wore uniforms. Some called the group which he served the Triad, some called it a Tong. More or less, it was both. Thanks to a complex system of buffers, nothing substantial had yet been pinned on Hung Fat Lee, but that didn't stop people of Chinatown from fearing him. As long as he confined his operations to that sector of the city, the police largely left him unmolested.

But not all his foes were of the police, or rivals.

Hung Fat was well guarded behind steel doors and five guards. Two on the outside, three on the inside. They had enough armament to repel a force of many men. Once, when in war with another Society, they had to do just that. Thankfully, the other side took the most losses.

Now, Hung Fat Lee was reviewing his books, the ones with the coded entries that told him exactly what the week's take had been from extortion, gambling, drug running, and prostitution. Plus there had been a little levy taken from the other operators in the district. That always helped him cover his nut. One of his father's maxims, which he had taken to heart, had something about always attending to business, lest business attend to you. This was something Hung Fat had taken to heart as much as he had the lessons of murder and illegal revenue learned from the Society.

A red light came on, in a lamp that was otherwise never lit. Hung Fat dropped his books and grabbed the automatic within his shoulder holster. The guard sitting in the room with him had already sprung up and was positioned by the side of the metal door, gun out. Whipping his gaze to the open door into the next room, Hung Fat called out, "Intruders! Prepare!" The two other guards rushed into the room, weapons at the ready.

There were two shots from outside. Hung Fat had heard enough gunfire to tell that only one came from his guard's weapon. No more reports could be heard. He went to a telephone, dragged it behind the desk where he crouched, put the receiver to his ear, and started dialing a number for his second-in-command before he realized there was no dial tone.

"War is being made upon us," he called to his men. "Defend yourselves."

The desk was plated with metal and made a good hiding place. The three men with him waited for the attack which was to come. The guard at the door, fearing explosives, moved back to what he thought was a safe distance.

They heard a hissing, smelled an acrid scent. "Acid," said one of the guards. "They're burning their way through the door."

Hung Fat thought about his several routes of escape, chose one, and said, "Sell yourselves well, my warriors." He bolted from the desk, making for the hidden trapdoor in the back room.

Before he could get there, blackness began rising up in a cloud from beneath the doorjamb.

A large quantity of black smoke was being pumped into the rooms. The dark cloud rose so quickly that even Hung Fat couldn't find the trapdoor, though he got on his hands and knees and felt for it frantically. The three men shouted imprecations in their native tongue and wondered how in hell to cope with this.

A rough noise indicated the door had been sprung open. The guards cried out and fired in its direction.

There was a noise of striking and a cry of pain. One of the guards was down. Another fell in swift succession, from the sound of it. Nothing could be seen. The third guard blasted away with his automatic. Before he loosed his fifth shot, the sound of another gun was heard. The guard made no more noises.

Hung Fat Lee remained still. Any noise on his part would give him away. Whoever had struck had some means of seeing through the smoke. Not even an infra-red sight would enable that. For all he knew, he was in plain view of the attacker. But not, perhaps, within hearing of him.

If he lived this day, Hung Fat would visit terrible vengeance on his invader. Him, and those who employed him.

As he completed that thought, Hung Fat was grabbed by the throat and gun wrist by a figure whom he did not see clearly, of whose presence he had no clue before he was seized. He was lifted off the floor, carried swiftly across the room, and slammed hard against the wall. The two hands upon him had a crushing grip. He sought to knee the man, but a sudden pressure on his throat made him gasp and almost black out. Of course, he could have emptied his automatic, but the shots would only have gone into the ceiling.

"Unhand your weapon, Hung Fat Lee," pronounced a voice that struck fear, somehow, into the ganglord's heart. "Today, I come not as an enemy."

The Asian gangster could barely speak, but the pressure about his throat eased a little. "You are," he managed to say, "from what Society?"

"I am the Shadow."

The Shadow!

It was impossible that a man live in Chinatown and deal in crime, and not hear such a name. But, miraculously, Hung Fat had never encountered the Man of Darkness. He had heard tales passed from other men in his business, of dark justice visited on various men who overstepped their bounds. Some he knew had gone absent, but whether the police or the Societies were responsible had never been known. A few, guardedly, had ventured the opinion that the Shadow might be behind some of the vanishings.

Until something was proven one way or the other, Hung Fat regarded the Shadow as a legend.

The legend was holding him by the throat.

"What do you want of me?" said Hung Fat. He seemed to see, through the smoke, two gleaming points of light that discomfited him.

"Do you know of a man named Shiwan Khan?"

Hung Fat coughed and searched his memory. "One of that name is not unknown in Chinatown. But as for dealing with him, I have not."

"I have," said the Shadow. "He is not only a rival to you and me, but a threat to all human life, including your own. Cooperate with me in this venture and you will be left unharmed. Refuse, and you will never have a moment's peace until your doom, which will not be long in coming. Answer me now."

The ganglord took a breath and calmed himself. Negotiations, he understood. "You have the upper hand, for the moment."

"Yes or no, Hung Fat Lee?"

After a pause, Hung Fat said, "For the moment, yes."

"Give me your weapon," said the Shadow.

The smoke was getting thinner, and the ganglord thought he could make out some details of the man before him. A huge slouch hat, dark clothing, a red muffler pulled up over his mouth, a hawk nose, and those two piercing eyes. Wordlessly, he loosened his grip on the automatic. The Shadow released his wrist and quickly grasped it. He took his hand away from Hung Fat's throat. The gangster thought of springing at the Shadow, trying to bear him down and wrest his gun away. One look at the dark man's eyes dissuaded him from trying it.

The Shadow removed the magazine of bullets from the weapon and handed it back to Hung Fat. "One of your guards is dead. The others are merely incapacitated."

Hung Fat leaned against the wall. "Fortunes of war."

"And we are in a war, Hung Fat," confirmed the Shadow. "Like none you have ever known. I will require something of you, and in return, will aid you against our common enemy."

"You say he is an enemy," said Hung Fat. "How am I to know this is true? Might he not be a friend?"

The Shadow stepped a pace closer. "Either he is your enemy, or I am your enemy. Which of us is in the room with you now, Hung Fat?"

"Your point is well taken," Hung Fat conceded. "I have heard of this Shiwan Khan. Though you would be an enemy, you would not be a business rival as he would."

"It is said, the enemy of my enemy is my friend," returned the Shadow. "On that basis, are we allies?"

"If such as you have said proves true, we are," admitted Hung Fat. "What do you require? Weapons?"

"Men," said the Shadow. "Under your command. We need more eyes and ears. We need more soldiers. Shiwan Khan, too, has his army. When the time comes to battle him, our forces may well join hands."

"So you say."

"But before then, we must be kept informed. We must learn of Shiwan Khan's men, and we must learn the hiding place of Khan himself. When we know these things, we will be able to strike. Mark you, Hung Fat, this must be done within a short time, else all is lost."

Hung Fat considered. "Of this man's intentions, I have no proof. Supposing I trust you. Will proof be provided?"

The Shadow looked intently at Hung Fat, or so it seemed. "In any of the legends of the underworld, Hung Fat, has it ever been said that the Shadow has lied?"

"It has not. But in a matter of this import..."

"Proof will be provided, I am confident, when battle is won," said the Shadow. "For now, you must decide whether or not to trust me."

"For now, I will," said Hung Fat. "What now, Shadow?"

"You must send your men out to the boundaries of Chinatown, and to all points within," the Shadow instructed. "Anyone your men do not know must be investigated, by any and all means. We must learn whom they are with. If the name of Shiwan Khan passes their lips, I must know of it, and I must speak to them. I will contact you daily. If I tell you to work with a man, you will work with him. Agreed?"

"Agreed. But how will you contact me?"

The smoke was growing fairly thin. Hung Fat, by all rights, should have been able to see his new ally better than before. But somehow, it became impossible to see him. He waved his arm through the smoke, sweeping part of it away.

When enough of it had lifted, he saw his fallen guards. He entered the next room, saw one unconscious, the other shot through the chest, dead. The outer door had the lock burned away from it by acid.

On impulse, Hung Fat went back into his inner room, tried the telephone again, and this time heard a dial tone. He dialed a certain number. His chief lieutenant answered.

"A meeting must take place," he said. "We have new working orders. Be here within the hour."

Then Hung Fat replaced the receiver on the cradle, looked about him, and sat at his desk again, to wait.

-S-

Within 24 hours, the methods of Hung Fat Lee bore fruit.

The population of Chinatown was finite and concentrated, and even men who are trying to keep their presence secret cannot do so for a long time. Especially not when the Society is looking for them. Several were taken. Then they were questioned, not without pain. One of them gave up the ghost in the process. Another finally let pass the words, "Shiwan Khan", from his lips.

Hung Fat wondered how to get word to the Shadow. But the phone shortly rang in his safe house, and the now-familiar voice said, "I am on my way." Then the connection was broken.

Truly, this Shadow was better to have as an ally than an enemy.

The two living members of Khan's men and the one dead one were tied to chairs, side by side, and bore the marks of burns and piercing. The Society men who were with them were instructed to go no further, before the arrival of their ally, who would question them.

In the cellar where the questioning was being done, the lights dimmed without anybody being near the switch. The guards went on alert, but Hung Fat held out a restraining hand. "Peace," he said. "I think it is our ally."

A now-familiar voice came to them. "In this you are correct, Hung Fat Lee," he said. "Take yourself and your guards to the other side of the room."

"I would hear what they have to say," said Hung Fat.

"And so you will," promised the Shadow. "But my methods are my own."

The crimelord nodded his head, and the gunsels went with him to the opposite side. They felt a presence pass them, rather than saw him. The eyes of one of the living captives were swollen shut. A slight glimmer of red, as if from a strange light source, danced before his face. If there were questions from the Shadow, none of the gangsters heard them.

But the soldier of Shiwan Khan began to speak. "We came in...on the Hwang Ho," he said, haltingly. The Chinese dialect he spoke was understood both by the Shadow and Hung Fat. "The Master...directed us. Said we were to come to Chinatown...and wait for orders."

There was a pause, then he said, "We knew not where the woman was taken. Our forces were divided. Only the Master knows where all are located."

Another pause. "Those of us in my group are housed in the home of Po Chin Ling. There are only five of us. Two died in battle. One died here. We are the last two."

Finally, he said, "I know not the Master's plans. I am a soldier."

Hung Fat thought of seeing if he could flip the lights on to a greater illumination. But the Shadow was getting results. Best to leave him to his own way of doing things. What they could make out of the dark figure went to the other living man, who stared unmovingly at the ceiling. The red glow passed before his face.

In a few seconds he, too, spoke. "The Master told us nothing. But he told me one thing. That was...that was..."

The man seemed to struggle. If a secret was buried deep enough to resist torture, it must be a secret indeed. Hung Fat leaned forward to hear what he could.

The scarlet glow seemed to intensify. The man struggled, then went calm. "I was told that the Shadow's men were to be trapped. They will be lured to the fireworks factory on Lo Chin street by the voice of the Shadow and captured, to lure the Shadow into a trap. This will be done..."

Blood began to seep from the man's nose. The Shadow's red Girasol ring glowed more faintly, then went out. The Asiatic seemed to sleep, now, with closed eyes.

"The fireworks factory," remarked Hung Fat. "We shall go there at once."

The eyes of the Shadow turned to him quickly. "At once will be too late," said the strange voice.

Then the eyes seemed to wink out, and, seconds later, the light came up. The Shadow was nowhere in the room.

One of the guards said, "What are we to do now, sir?"

Hung Fat said, "He has not asked for assistance. On the other hand, if we provide it, we may find ourselves with a lever in hand. We go to the factory."

-S-

Cliff Marsland and Harry Vincent approached the three-story fireworks factory, which covered almost half a block of Chinatown real estate. About them, the street life went on as usual, but the factory looked deserted. Not even a night watchman was on hand.

"It's a trap," said Vincent.

Cliff Marsland scoffed. "Sure it's a trap. But the Boss told us to come here. You said you heard him, and you've heard him enough to tell that it's him."

Harry adjusted his hat. "I heard. But Shiwan Khan is tougher than just about anyone else we've taken on. Even the Boss never put him away. And that's over four times."

"So. You want to cop out?"

"Nary a chance, Marsland. We go in."

"What I was waiting for," said Cliff. He checked his .45, put it back in its shoulder holster, and crossed the street ahead of Harry.

The service door was locked, as expected. Harry Vincent put on gloves, took a set of pick tools from his pocket, and opened the lock. He stood to one side of the door, Cliff stood to the other. Then he reached out his arm, grasped the doorknob, twisted it, and pulled the door wide open.

Nothing.

Cliff went to a barred window on the left and broke it in with the barrel of his gun. Then he darted to a window on the right and did the same. No noise was heard from inside.

"Into the belly of the beast," murmured Harry.

"Like you said," agreed Marsland.

Guns out, the two of them rushed into the factory through the door. They moved to right and left individually, scanning the room before them, the tables, the equipment, the places that could and no doubt did conceal hidden men. The lighting was flourescent, but even that suggested there were some things it would not reveal.

Harry shot Cliff an inquisitive look. Marsland shook his head. He had seen nothing. After so long in the service of the Shadow, both of them could communicate without speaking almost as well as with it.

There were rooms beyond this factory area where fireworks were sorted and packed into crates. Both of them were conscious of what conflagration could be set off by errant gunfire. Vincent and Marsland moved cautiously around the room, not separating too far or losing sight of one another.

Two doors led into adjoinng rooms. There were garage doors leading to a small loading dock facing the alley. Cliff moved towards one of the doors in the opposite wall, while Harry stayed with him and kept his eyes and gun trained in the direction of the garage doors.

Neither of them saw the man who threw the object from near the ceiling. Chances are, it wouldn't have made much difference anyway. It made no noise until, in mid-air, it burst.

A blast of white light seared Harry and Cliff's retinas. Both of them squeezed their eyes shut an instant too late. Instinctively, they dropped to the floor, still holding tight to their weapons.

"Harry," called Cliff. "Harry!"

"I'm over here, Cliff," he said. "I'm damned well blind."

A door which they could not see burst open. An unknown number of men poured into the room. Cliff took a chance and shot twice in the direction he remembered the door occupying, but hit no one. Within seconds, both of them were disarmed captives. Their hands were cuffed behind them and both were shoved roughly to the wall, in a sitting position. As their vision improved, they saw that a semicircle of Chinese men with guns were standing around them, facing outward.

"Well, you were right about one thing, Harry," said Cliff. "It was a trap."

"That really brightens my day," said Harry Vincent, glumly.

"You," said one of the men, turning his head. "Shut mouth."

"Go to hell," said Marsland. That earned him a crack across the face. He tried to stand up, but a gun muzzle shoved his way disabused him of that idea.

Vincent seethed at the sight of what had been done to his friend. But if he had learned one thing over the past twenty years, it was to husband his anger until such a time as it could be harnessed most effectively.

Margo was, most likely, not here. But she had been his partner and friend for so long that the choice of not following up this lead was nonexistent. But Harry was beginning to have doubts about the voice he had heard on the telephone. It had sounded like his master, to a T. But was there a chance someone could impersonate that uncanny voice so well?

Someone such as Shiwan Khan?

As those thoughts went through his mind, the lights in the factory went off. The only illumination that came in was from the street lights filtering through the windows.

The guards, despite themselves, gave out cries of astonishment. Harry smiled, and saw that Cliff was smiling, too.

The sound of the chilling laugh that came to their ears a second later, Harry felt, was not an imitation.

And a second after that, the shooting started.


	4. Chapter 4

The Shadow: Final Shadows

Part 4

by DarkMark

The soldiers of Shiwan Khan only knew that they had to do something, so they shot in the direction from which the laughing came.

The problem was that the sound shifted to an opposite corner of the room. They couldn't see anything there, either, but they pumped bullets in that direction. Then it came from a section of the catwalk above them. One gunsel fired shots up there, as well.

One of the crew, apparently in charge, hit the shooter in the side of the head. "Fool!" he snapped. "He throws his voice. Don't waste your fire."

"Oh, that's okay by us," said Cliff, amiably. "Waste it all you want to. He doesn't mind."

"Silence!" said one of the guards, and bent as if to strike him. But the look from Harry's eyes made him hesitate. He saved face by saying, "We'll teach you later."

"Doubt it," said Harry.

The other gunmen were fanning out around the room. "Be wary," said their commander. "Fire the wrong way, and the entire place could go—"

A single shot dropped him in his tracks.

"The Boss," said Harry, approvingly. "The Boss is here."

There were at least thirteen of Shiwan Khan's men in the room, besides the five who acted as guards to Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland. All had guns, and all knew that there was enough flammable material in the area to send the lot of them to Kingdom Come. One of the soldiers went to the fallen commander. "He isn't dead," said the man. "He—"

Another shot. This time, it hit the speaker. He was dead, by the time he hit the floor.

"He's picking us off!" said the commander, holding his wounded side. "Watch yourselves!"

But the problem was not with watching themselves. It was with watching the most effective sniper in the known world.

Two more shots came from the Shadow's twin .45's. Two more of Shiwan Khan's men died before them. The gunsels pumped lead in the direction the gunfire came from, but hit nothing. Blood was beginning to cover the floor. When it came to justice, the Shadow only secondarily left things to a jury.

The guards around Harry and Cliff were visibly frightened, and both their captives could tell why. "You're sitting ducks, ain't you?" remarked Cliff. "The Boss can pick you off anytime he wants."

"Not if we kill you first!" shouted one, and shoved his gun in Cliff's direction.

Another one of the men banged him over the head with the barrel of his revolver. "Stop, you idiot! Kill one of them and the Shadow will surely kill us. Have a care!"

"Right," said Harry. "Never forget: we're valuable."

The man smacked Harry with the same revolver and cut his cheek. Harry decided he'd be discreet till the battle was over.

Two more shots came from the Shadow's guns and caught their targets in the head. It was messy.

One of the gunsels' nerves broke. He cried out, "The Golden Master has deserted us. Shiwan Khan has sent us here to die!"

The shot that killed him did not come from the Shadow. The commander held a smoking pistol and said, "Die at the Shadow's hands, or mine, or kill him. Make your choice now."

That was when more of the windows shattered, and more Asian hoods began pouring into the room, shooting first and looking second.

"Good god," said Cliff Marsland. "Who the hell are they?"

The Shadow, from his vantage point, looked upon the newcomers with silent rage. Hung Fat's men. This operation demanded the precision of surgery, and they were here to do butcher work.

His gaze went to the men surrounding Cliff and Harry. They would have to be taken out immediately, to save his agents. Furthermore, they must not be given the chance to react, and kill their two captives. The Shadow raised his guns.

As he was doing so, the commander of Shiwan Khan's men emptied his revolver into a stack of fireworks crates.

A flash of eye-blinding green, yellow, and white fire, the noise of over a hundred cheap fireworks going off at once, and what little control was left over chaos was quickly shattered.

Curses in various Chinese dialects went up to the skies, and the Shadow's presence was briefly revealed in the blaze of light. The spewing flame set at least one man's clothes on fire and forced him to roll, screaming, on the floor. Hung Fat's voice rang out, commanding his men not to fire on their own in the confusion.

One of the guards covering Harry and Cliff saw the Shadow in the instant that he was revealed, and aimed his gun at him. Harry leaned forward and bit the back of his calf as hard as he could. The gunman shouted in pain and pulled his shot just enough to miss. The Shadow, wheeling, wasn't that inaccurate. The shooter dropped dead beside Harry.

"Kill them!" shouted one of the four remaining guards, as he turned to point his weapon at the two captives.

Gunfire flashed against the backdrop of the exploding fireworks. Three men dropped before the Shadow's big weapons. The fourth was taken out by another man's shot. The Shadow wheeled in that direction.

Hung Fat stood there with a smoking gun. "You owe me one, Shadow."

The Shadow turned and dragged his men to their feet. Cliff and Harry were still cuffed, and there was no time to free them. "Stay behind me," he said. "We're getting you out."

"You said it, boss," Cliff responded.

Khan's commander was in agony on the floor. One of Hung Fat's hoods was near him with a levelled gun. "Stop!" said the Shadow, in a voice that carried over the blasting fireworks, and which the gunman knew, somehow, was directed to him alone. He paused to look up at the Shadow, training a .45 at him across the room. The man in black was illuminated against the blasts of burning Roman candles.

"We need this man," he said. "He has information. Do not kill him. Bring him outside."

The sound of fire engines was heard in the not-far distance. All the men still alive in the factory heard it. The Shadow turned to Hung Fat Lee. "Get your men and our captive out of here," he said. "I will see to my own. Soon, I will be in contact."

"As you say," said Hung Fat.

The Shadow hesitated, and said, "You have aided me. But we must have words, before the next time."

Hung Fat said, "You know where to reach me." He wondered if he had been too bold in saying that. But the Shadow only looked at him once again, and then moved towards his men. The fireworks were still going off and fire was spreading. The gangboss called out, "Disperse. The police are coming."

The men of the Society were funneling out through the doorway. A few shots were exchanged. None of his own died, but a few more of Shiwan Khan's men remained. Either the police would take them, or they would return in dishonor to their master, or they would simply run. Hung Fat neared Khan's commander, and then looked in the direction where the Shadow and his two men had been.

They were no longer there.

Hung Fat nodded, and grabbed the man underneath his arms.

-S-

Commissioner Weston took the front section of the Graphic and crumpled it. Then he tossed it in the trash. "Tell me how you got it, Burke."

Clyde Burke, the Graphic's star reporter, smiled and spread his hands. "Don't know what you mean, Commish. I'm just another Front Page Farrell."

"Uh huh. And I'm Mr. District Attorney." Weston stalked from his desk, looking like he wanted to lift Burke off his feet by his collar. "How the hell were you near Chinatown when all this went down? That's not your beat."

"Hell, Commish, my beat is wherever news happens," said Burke, trying to be pleasant. "That's why they call us reporters. Remember?"

Weston sighed. "In all my forty years on the force, Burke, I'm damned if I can remember a time I've felt more like chucking a man out my window. Over ten men are dead. A fire breaks out in the Hop Sing Fireworks Company and guts the thing from the inside. I smell more than fire in this one, Burke. I smell Shadow all over it."

"What do you want me to say, Commissioner? Did anybody see the Shadow there? If they did, tell me who. I could use an interview for a follow-up."

This time, Weston did grab Burke and lift him right out of his chair by his arms. "I want you to tell me that you know the Shadow. And I want to know how."

Burke didn't speak for a few seconds. It was wise to give the Commissioner a chance to cool down. "I've told you before, sir. I only know the Shadow as you know him. He's just a legend, mostly. People claim to have seen him, hoods claim he killed some of them, but we've got no proof."

"You've got more proof than you're talking about, Burke," said Weston, still holding onto him. "I've been a cop about as long as you've been alive. Every one of my instincts tells me you're lying about the Shadow."

"Okay," said Burke. "In that case, throw me in the tank on the basis of instinct, let me make my one call to my editor, and see where it gets you. Believe me, sir, I'm on your side. But the law...well, it'll be on my side."

Weston let him down into the chair again, turned, and went to the window. Clasping his hands behind him, he spoke again. "I've got a kidnapped woman, Burke. One of my personal friends. Margo Lane. I've got dead people in Chinatown, and a doctor there whose home was invaded. I've got damn near the whole force on the case, and I don't know anything more than I did when I first learned about it. Except that more people are dead."

Burke straightened his coat. "Well, those Tong wars are tough."

"I don't think this is a Tong war," said Weston. "But I don't know what it is. If you find out, I want to know. Immediately."

Clyde Burke, about to take his fedora off the hat rack, paused. Not turning around, Weston said, "That's all."

The reporter took his hat, put it on his head, and left. On the way out, Fritz the janitor, who had been at Headquarters longer than anybody could remember, gave him a knowing look. Burke didn't see it.

He proceeded down to a cab stand, took a taxi to a greasy spoon with a phone booth in it, and made sure he was facing outward as he dialed a number.

"Burbank," said the voice on the other end.

"This is Burke," said Clyde. "Just talked with the commissioner. We didn't tell each other anything, but he's on the trail. That's all I've got."

"Your message will be passed on," said Burbank, and hung up.

Clyde Burke emerged from the booth and gathered courage to order lunch.

-S-

Margo Lane didn't know how long she was asleep, but she awoke to see Shiwan Khan outside the bars again.

She wiped the sleep out of her eyes. "Haven't you been here often enough?"

The Chinese mastermind shrugged. "Sometimes it is difficult to find suitable persons for conversation, Miss Lane. Feel privileged."

"I'll feel that way once the Shadow saves me and does you in," Margo retorted, sitting up on her bench. She had slept in her dress and was feeling positively grungy. But there wasn't enough water to bathe in, and she supposed that was the least of her worries.

"An encouraging scenario for you, but not very likely," Khan replied. "Could you tell me something about yourself, Miss Lane? It is well said that the persons one usually knows best are the ones one opposes."

"All right, I'll tell you something," she said. "I've got a baby growing inside me. He or she will never see the light of day if you do what you propose."

He shook his head. "I knew that already, Miss Lane. It is regrettable your child must die. But he will never know life, or pain. You will deliver him on the other side, if there is such a place. You and his father will be united with him as a family. So you see? I am not entirely unmerciful."

Margo had to laugh. "You really are unbelievable, Khan. You really are something. But I'm a lady, so I can't say what that something is."

"Just so," said Khan. "Do not feel hatred towards me, though. Your death will not be a matter of vengeance. The only one I wish that upon will be the Shadow."

"And all the other millions you're going to kill are only casualties on the side?"

"Indeed. As were those of Nagasaki and Hiroshima. I say that in all sincerity, by the way. Had China possessed the atomic bomb, it would undoubtedly have used it. It would have used it many more times than the United States did. I would have used it, myself. But I would not have hit mere population centers or industrial towns. No, Miss Lane, I would have dropped the bomb directly on Tokyo."

Margo didn't say anything. She just clasped one knee in her hands and stared at him.

"You Americans think you know war," said Khan. "You only knew it from afar. The closest they got to the United States was sinking transport ships outside your harbors, or the Pearl Harbor incident. You lost your warriors, but not yourselves."

"Somebody had to win," said Margo.

"Others had to lose," Khan answered. "My homeland, attacked by the Japanese, fallen to Communism. That took away most of my power, then and there. Britain, bombed almost flat, losing its colonies one by one. The British sun has set. Germany, humiliated once again, forced to face up to their crime of genocide, never to rise in pride or power anew. The Arabs and Jews at each other's throats again, so soon after the death of the six million. America won, Miss Lane. The rest of the world lost. It is time America lost, as well."

"No, Khan," she said. "You'll lose. Like you always do, when you go against the Shadow. He'll kill you this time, unless you set me free and abandon your plan. If you're lucky."

"I have not lost, Miss Lane. I have only suffered setbacks. You know nothing of my victories, because I did not cross your master's path. In the long view, as I have said before, the battle means little if it contributes to the success of a war. And though my victory be Pyrrhic...it will be a victory."

With that, Shiwan Khan left. But Margo felt a bit of triumph, nonetheless.

She hadn't told him anything about herself, and he hadn't managed to make her.

Now, if she could just find a way out.

-S-

Night.

The sailor on the starboard deck of the _Hwang Ho_ , a ship just in from China, could have sworn he heard sucking sounds coming from the side of the ship.

That was insanity itself. But such things, even if insane, had to be checked out. He leaned over the rail in the direction of the sounds and looked over, carefully.

He imagined he saw two gleaming points of light shortly before a puff of air was heard and something buried its point in his neck. The sailor tried to cry out, tried to pull the dart from his neck, and only succeeded in falling back unconscious.

Enabled by his suction cups, the Shadow kept crawling up the side of the ship.

None managed to find the sailor in time to see the man in black clambering over the railing. Hardly any noticed a figure which might have blended into the shadows, like the legendary Ninja of the Japanese. Some aboard felt a presence that made them uneasy, but saw nothing when they turned around.

This was undoubtedly the case with the man who was on duty at the ship's brig. He felt a sting in his neck, and awoke shortly afterward to find nothing out of place. He supposed that he had just fallen asleep, and hoped like hell that nobody had discovered his dereliction of duty.

A few minutes later, the same sucking sounds could be heard on the side of the ship, if any had been there to hear them. The stricken sailor had been taken away and guards were posted, but the figure in black had picked his route well. Two other guards had been put to sleep. A small rowboat was beneath him as he neared the waterline. He leapt into it with only a small sound, manned the oars, and was away.

Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland were standing on the docks, smoking cigarettes and wondering if this was the time the boss wouldn't surprise them when he came back. It wasn't. A voice came from behind them. "He is not on board," it said.

The two of them wheeled to face the man in the slouch hat. "Uh," said Harry, marshalling his thoughts. "Shiwan Khan?"

"Neither he nor his men nor Margo," said the Shadow, standing before them. "I suspected such, but it had to be checked."

Cliff tried to stifle a yawn. "So where does that leave us, Boss?"

"Get some sleep, both of you," advised the Shadow. "I will call for you in four hours."

"Four hours?" said Marsland. "Boss, that ain't time enough for..."

"I will wake you," said the Shadow, and was gone.

-S-

Hung Fat, as the Shadow had requested, had left Shiwan Khan's field commander unharmed, but tied to a chair. A crude attempt at bandaging his side had been made. Blood still leaked through the dressing. The man was in pain.

Nobody seemed to care very much.

The gangboss was doing his books to kill the time. The guards looked on impassively, covering their captive. Occasionally he groaned. When that happened, Hung Fat would look up in mild annoyance.

"How one can be expected to perform bookkeeping when that racket is going on is a mystery for the ages," he pronounced.

The wounded man sucked in a breath. "The Golden One will show mercy to those who treat his lieutenants well, even in battle."

"The Golden One would show nothing but death to me," said Hung Fat. "Be glad you have been allowed to live, unfortunate one."

"Then allow me to die," said the man. "The pain is beyond endurance."

"The matter is out of my hands," Hung Fat replied. "We wait for our guest."

"Kill me first!"

"Gag him," directed Hung Fat, and two guards moved to obey.

"Stop." A new voice, one they had all heard before. The captive reacted with terror, the rest with only slightly restrained fear.

"Kill me now!" said the minion of Shiwan Khan.

None would have believed there was enough darkness in the room to conceal the Shadow. But he stood there before him, and none could detect the door having opened or shut. The guards relaxed, but only slightly.

"Welcome," said Hung Fat.

The Shadow ignored him. He stood before the wounded enemy. "You are Wo Fat," he said. "I am the Shadow."

"I know who you are, Ying Ko," said Wo Fat. "Do not make me dishonor myself."

"This is not a matter of honor or dishonor, Wo Fat," said the man in black. "This is a matter, I fear, of danger to the entire human race. Oriental as well as Occidental. You will help us find your master."

"I will not!"

"In doing so, you will be delivered to a place where your wound will be treated, and you will survive," the Shadow continued. "Then you will take yourself far from these shores, and you will not return. I will give you your life, in return for your information. Is that clear?"

"I dare not betray the Golden One!"

The Shadow raised his hand, and his Girasol ring began to glow, picking out the lights in his eyes.

Before long, Wo Fat began to speak in low tones, too softly for Hung Fat to make anything out. He continued for a good while. Then he stopped. After a pause, the Shadow spoke again.

"I will take you to a place of healing," he said. "After you are released, you will return to your homeland. You will never again serve the Golden Master. The Shadow has spoken."

With that, the Shadow produced a knife and cut Wo Fat's bonds.

Hung Fat was out of his chair in a moment. "This is improper," he said, indignantly. "He has crossed the path of the Society. He must pay!"

The Shadow, taking Wo Fat's entranced form in his arms as if it were a baby, turned to Hung Fat Lee. "He has paid already, with his information. I have made a bargain and I will honor it, Hung Fat. Never more will he trouble you, or me. But one thing I must tell you. Never again interfere in my fight without my foreknowledge. We barely averted disaster in the last battle. I thank you for your help, but a wise general does not surprise his allies."

The crime lord looked upon his dark partner for a long moment. "You have surprised me more than once, Ying Ko."

"Not in that manner," said the Shadow. "Be ready for action tonight. I will call you."

The master of darkness turned with his human burden and walked to the door. The guards looked to Hung Fat for direction. He sighed and said, "Let him out." The man nearest the door opened it for the Shadow, and shut it behind him.

After his visitor was gone, Hung Fat remarked, "Some partnerships, while necessary, are almost as taxing as enemies. We will be well off once our business is concluded."

Nobody there felt like contradicting him.

-S-

There was a banging on the door of the cheap hotel where Harry and Cliff were sleeping, or trying to. Cliff opened his eyes, cursed, and stretched. The banging went on. He put on his shoulder holster and shoes, calling out, "All right, already! Stop that crap! I'm coming." Harry woke, yawned, and stretched. Passwords were exchanged through the door. Nonetheless, Cliff had his gun out as he opened the door.

Moe Shrevnitz was standing on the other side. "We got a job to do," he said.

"Before breakfast? Hell," grumbled Harry, running his hands through his hair.

"The boss got you some steak sandwiches and coffee in bags in the back seat," said Shrevvy. "You can eat on the way."

"Where we headed?" asked Cliff, reholstering his gun.

"Where the boss told me to go," shot back Shrevvy.

Harry reached for his shirt, put it on, and hoped the sandwiches would be worth it.


	5. Chapter 5

**The Shadow:**

 **Final Shadows**

Part 5

by DarkMark

The Elliot Memorial Sanitarium hadn't been used legally for some time. It had been shut down for shoddy operating conditions a decade earlier (the phrase "snake pit" had been used by one of the deponents) and not reopened or demolished. Derelicts sometimes used it for a home. In recent days, no derelict would have dared to.

From the description given him by the man he questioned, the Shadow knew it as the new lair of Shiwan Khan.

Of course, with the knowledge being so easily gained, he knew it was most likely a trap. But it was also the probable place of Margo Lane's imprisonment.

Shrevvy had already taken the Shadow to the asylum before going back for Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland. Hung Fat Lee had been alerted, and told to come at a time in which Harry and Cliff should be arriving. They would initiate the war against the troops Shiwan Khan had in this building.

But Margo was probably inside, and to ensure her safety, the Shadow would begin operations before their arrival.

The asylum itself was surrounded by a stone wall and a barred gate. The top of the wall was surmounted by a newly-installed three-strand of barbed wire. Simple enough to get through. But the man in black threw his gun against a strand, watched it spark electricity, and caught the weapon as it came down. Shiwan Khan was making it challenging.

From an inside pocket of his cloak, the Shadow brought a pair of rubber gloves. From another, he produced a pair of wire cutters. Finally, from a valise he carried with him for this venture, he took three suction cups. Within minutes, he had climbed the wall, severed the three strands of wire between two metal supports, and climbed over.

Khan had guards within. This, the Shadow suspected already, and it was confirmed as two armed men began rushing towards the wall, in his general direction. He knew it was too dark for them to see him unaided, so that meant either they had noticed the cutting of the wires, heard his muffled fall, or...

His eyes narrowed. The men seemed to be wearing strange goggles over their eyes. Most likely, infra-red night-vision sights. Well, then.

The guards leveled their weapons at him and began to fire. But he was simply not where they fired at.

None of them could predict his speed, which was almost superhuman. For this job, he had silencers on his .45's. A cough of sorts was heard, and one of the guards fell. The other, after gaping a second at his unliving fellow, was about to raise his voice in alarm to whatever guards were left.

Before he could do so, the Shadow was before him, his hawk-nosed face inches away from the guard's. The Girasol ring glowed redly, illuminating the Shadow's eyes.

"Your will is mine," the Shadow announced, briefly and with authority. "You will raise no alarm."

The guard stood still, without protest.

"You will run to the east, waiting for five seconds to fire, shouting that the Shadow is fleeing from you and others must come to your aid."

Without hesitation, the man sprinted to the east. The Shadow ran in another direction, towards the asylum. Approximately five seconds later, he heard gunfire and the guard shouting in Chinese. Other voices joined his.

The asylum, as old as it was, was a fortresslike affair and the Shadow did not doubt that the windows and doors would be guarded, though it was unknown just how many men Khan could bring along for this operation. Perhaps he had recruited local talent from the Society. It mattered not. What had to be done, would be done.

From the valise which he carried with him, the Shadow took a collapsible device, unfolded it into a grappling hook with an attached rope, and threw it with one toss over the roof. He pulled hard, an instant later. It skidded, caught the edge of something, and held. After a couple of practice tugs, the Dark Avenger put his feet against the side of the wall and scampered up. He reached the roof and pulled up the line only seconds before a couple of guards passed by.

The valise, opened again, produced a tightly-stoppered vial. The Shadow grasped it carefully, unscrewed its lid, and gingerly poured its contents in a circle on a portion of the roof. An acrid smell and a hissing were the results. The acid ate through enough of the roof for the Shadow to kick down hard and dislodge a section. The noise had to carry somewhat, despite his efforts. But he was through the hole and into the attic storehouse of the asylum a second later.

Mostly just dust, crates, and boxes up there, but where Khan was concerned, nothing could be taken for granted. Still, the Shadow made his way through the attic quickly, finding a trapdoor, pulling it up, and peering down to see a ladder leading to the next floor. No sound of voices or movements came from it. He hesitated only a second before putting his hands and feet to it and practically sliding down the ladder. The valise he had clasped to his belt beneath the cloak. Undoubtedly he would need it, and there was no sense leaving it up there to be discovered.

There were only three aboveground levels to the asylum, plus most likely a below-ground story in which the most difficult cases would be housed. That would probably be the area in which Margo was imprisoned, if she were here. But where was Khan?

The room into which he had descended was part of a stairwell, with opened doors accessing it. One of Khan's guards was passing through a doorway, not goggled, but cautious, nonetheless. His gun was out. It didn't serve him well.

The flat of the Shadow's hand lashed out and caught him in the Adam's apple. The big Asiatic fell without a sound.

Another guard, not far off, called to him. "Wang, where are you? Report!"

The Shadow allowed him to come into the room. The man was cautious, had his gun out, and covered the room before he entered. But he didn't expect the Shadow to drop from the ceiling, suction cups and all, and fall upon him like a large black spider.

The fight was brief and perhaps not as noisy as it could have been. The power of hypnotism figured into it as much as the Shadow's strength. Within a minute, the guard was staring fixedly at nothing in particular, while the Shadow questioned him.

"Is there a captive woman in this building?" he asked.

The Asiatic guard said, "Yes."

"Where is she?"

"In the lowest level," said the man. "I have seen her once."

"How heavily is she guarded?"

"At least five men on duty," he said. "Kha Khan will know if anyone nears her."

"How?"

"He will know."

The Shadow said, "How many men does Khan have in this installation?"

"Perhaps 30," said the guard. "Sometimes he takes some away, brings others in."

"Do you know his overall plan?"

"No."

"You have done well," said the Shadow, and pressed a nerve that granted the man unconsciousness.

The Shadow rose. There would be more men. There would be safeguards and traps. Then there would be the deadliest foe he had ever faced, and Margo Lane.

He wouldn't expect any lesser treatment from his host.

The Shadow began to move.

-S-

Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland didn't dare light up a smoke where they were. Not even with cupped hands to conceal the flame. They were somewhat unsettled by keeping company with the Society hoods who had arrived more or less at the same time, but Hung Fat was diplomatic enough to reassure them a bit.

"How much longer?" asked Harry.

"Damned if I know," Cliff said. "China Clipper here made me take off my watch, remember? Didn't even want anybody to see the radium dial."

"Smart move," Harry confirmed. They had heard some noises from the asylum, about a quarter-mile distant, mostly men yelling in Chinese. But the Boss had told them to stay out of it for a length of time, presumably until he could see to Margo. Still, it exposed him to all the danger of Shiwan's men.

Normally, Harry would have felt sorry for the men. But Khan didn't hire or train pantywaists.

Hung Fat Lee was sitting in a Studebaker, hands folded, looking out the windshield. One of his men was beside him, hands clutching the wheel. Almost imperceptibly, Hung Fat gave a nod.

The lieutenant opened the door and got out. "Time," he said, loudly enough for all around to hear.

Cliff Marsland checked his gun out of habit. "That's it. Let's go."

"Solid, Jackson," muttered Harry, and began rushing forward, pacing Hung Fat's crew.

-S-

The second level was more well-guarded, and well-lit. The Shadow had a feeling Shiwan Khan anticipated his way of entry. Well and good.

Five gunsels came out when he made a tentative entry and started blazing. This, despite the fact that he kept to as many shadows as were available. Two of them had infra-red goggles on, explaining things. Two of the slugs went through his cloak. He dropped the two shooters an instant later. The others faded behind doorways adjoining the stairwell and waited for him to come within view. He had seen one of them speaking on a walkie-talkie. The rest of the guards had to know he was in here, now.

With a bit of effort, the Shadow lifted the body of one of the dead guards and threw him across the view of the doorway on the left. Shots penetrated the body, revealing the shooter's position. The Shadow leapt across and put a slug through the mouth of the Asiatic who had fired. Then he whirled, for a shootout with the man on the other side.

The gunman might have unleashed a shot at the Shadow in time enough to tag him. But he made the mistake of looking into the Shadow's eyes before he did so. Nobody could look into the eyes of the Shadow, and not hesitate.

A gun's report one instant later ensured that those eyes were the last things he ever saw on Earth.

That left one, and he had no idea where the man was. Not that it mattered that much, really. He had to get to the basement level, and if he left a few hoods alive, he could afford it.

The sound of a breath being taken behind him prompted the Shadow to drop, whirl, and fire, almost simultaneously. The guard behind him took a bullet in the heart before he could fully squeeze his trigger.

There were voices below, running steps. The men of Shiwan Khan were coming up from the floor below him. Let them come.

His gloved hand found the light switch for the room on the left, then the one on the right. He shot out the bulb in the stairwell.

The guardsmen of Shiwan Khan saw it and didn't want to go up. But they feared the wrath of Shiwan Khan if they didn't.

Either way, it didn't make much difference. They were sitting ducks.

Except that, a few minutes later, they were lying down.

-S-

Two of Hung Fat's men rammed the gates of the asylum with a car armored enough to crash through warehouse doors. They touched off a bomb Shiwan Khan had rigged to the gates, and were both blown sky-high, along with the vehicle. But the gates, and a good portion of the wall, were torn asunder.

"Damn!" said Harry, looking on.

Hung Fat looked a bit grim, but businesslike. "Fortunes of war," he said. "In!"

The time for silence was past. Hung Fat's men went in yelling. The troops of Shiwan Khan greeted them the same way.

Guns flashed on both sides, hand weapons and submachine weapons as well. The Chinese gangsters hugged the ground and fired upward, picking off as many of the Khan's soldiers as they could before the others hit the dirt as well. Whatever else might be said about Hung Fat, Harry Vincent had to admit he'd trained his men well.

Cliff Marsland was packing two pistols, one of which he'd gotten from Hung Fat. He picked his shots with great accuracy, firing at the gun blazes he saw before him. Vincent admired his night vision. Cliff would be a very dangerous foe to go against. Harry was glad, suddenly, that they were both on the same side.

He thought about the others he claimed as allies on this caper, and wondered, if they got out intact, what compromises the Boss might be letting himself in for.

It was difficult to see Khan's men, who were generally dressed in gray to blend in more fully with the night. But the moon was conveniently bright and the enemy was no better concealed than Hung Fat's forces. The asylum was fully visible. And men died on both sides.

Margo was still inside. Or she was supposed to be, anyway.

Harry rose to a crouch. "I'm going in. Cover me."

"What?" snapped Cliff.

"I'm going in."

"You're nuts!"

Harry Vincent didn't waste time arguing. At a crouch, he rushed forward in a zig-zag motion.

Shots spanged around him and he had to return fire, nailing at least one man on the way. He thought, insanely, about a Stephen Crane story he'd once read concerning a Civil War soldier who risked his life under fire to bring back water from a well.

He kept the image of Margo Lane uppermost in his mind, and kept going.

A shot came from behind him, and a cry in front told him it had tagged one of Khan's men. He turned his head, his gun at the ready.

Cliff was following at a run. "What the hell you stopping for? Go on!"

"You're nuts, too, Cliff," grinned Harry.

"Shut up and run!"

The tactic had one immediate result: more of Hung Fat's men rose up to charge after them. The soldiers of Shiwan Khan began to rise to meet them. The gun battle was on foot, once again.

The two Shadow agents covered the ground between them and the asylum like a running back and his guard, broken-fielding their way across a gridiron. Their own shots and the coverage of Hung Fat's men from behind helped. Harry's hat was knocked off by one shot, and another went between his feet. But luck was with both of them that night, and Cliff Marsland put a bullet through the face of the last defender in front of them.

Marsland picked the gun from the man's dead hand and threw it to Harry, who caught it. "You've got to be low on ammo by now," he said.

"Kind of," said Harry. "Thanks. What about you?"

"I'll make out okay. Don't you hear what's going on in there?"

From this distance, sounds within the asylum were indeed audible. Mostly, shots and screams.

"Sounds like the Boss is busy," opined Harry, and wondered whether to chance the front door or try to chance one of the barred windows.

Hung Fat, flanked by two of his men, approached at a run. "Back, both of you!" he shouted. The advice sounded good to Harry and Cliff, who faded back to each side of the door, and then crouched behind the shrubbery nearby.

The ganglord pitched a small round object at the door, after which an explosion left the door and the walls about it a smoking, splintered ruin.

"My own skeleton key," said Hung Fat. "I have yet to see a door it will not open. Inside, gentlemen."

-S-

Margo Lane heard the explosion—heard it? Hell, she felt it!—and, combined with what filtered down to her of the noises above, guessed that salvation was close at hand. Or at least closer.

She thought about trying to make some noise to attract the Shadow. Then again, that might attract the attention of Khan or his men, and God only knew what they might do to her if they thought they were losing and a stroke of revenge might be all they had left. Margo decided to wait.

Despite herself, she settled back on the bench of her cell to wait. They'd played out this scene many times before. Lamont came to rescue her from the jaws of peril, after a decent time in it. Of course, she'd gotten herself out of jams as well. But there was something reassuring about a sign that he was there, on the job.

The question was, how much did he know about Shiwan Khan's plan? Did he even know that Khan had a disease culture which, according to him, could wipe out the entire continent?

Well, if he didn't, when he freed her, she'd be sure to tell him. Until then, she might as well take it easy.

-S-

The third level had been a bit more difficult. Khan had rigged some electric eye beams which set off alarms when the Shadow's body broke them. The guards who emerged had gas masks on. He guessed that what gas they used would be of the knockout variety, since Khan was not known to endanger his other men without cause.

Giving thanks that he had reloaded before coming to this level, the Shadow dodged bullets and mowed down those who came before him. The problem was that some were massed, blocking the stairs to the basement. A lot of them, actually. As the Dark Avenger killed a man holding a gas bomb, he had to admit admiration for the soldiers' dedication.

Then the noise and impact of a terrific blast rocked everyone on the first floor and below. Even the Shadow was knocked sprawling, though he kept his .45's in a deathlike grip.

There were more shouts and orders, most in Chinese, but some in English. His sharp ears recognized two of the voices: those of Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland. And, of course, Hung Fat Lee was among the invaders as well.

He had time enough to see one of the gas-masked men lobbing a sphere at him. The Shadow grabbed his cloak, loosened it from his shoulders, and snapped it like a whip, knocking the bomb back further into the wing behind them. It exploded, spewing vapors, but he trusted they wouldn't carry far enough to bother them.

Just to make certain, though, he shot the man who threw the bomb, stripped the gas mask from his face, and put it on. Then, dodging slugs, he replaced his cloak about his shoulders and began firing anew.

The laugh of the Shadow rang out in the asylum, and it was no less terrifying for the fact that his foes could see him.

"Boss!" came Harry Vincent's voice. "Boss!"

"Get back, all of you!" warned the Shadow. "One of them has unleashed a knockout gas bomb. It will take a few moments for it to disperse."

"I have a better idea," said Hung Fat. "Stand back, Shadow."

It didn't seem to Harry or Vince that Hung Fat waited very long for their boss to obey or not. They just saw him take a pin out of a grenade from his shoulder bag and lob it at the stairwell where a mass of Khan's soldiers were gathered. The guardsmen barely had time to panic. They didn't have time to get away. The Shadow's men hit the floor, along with those of Hung Fat.

Another explosion rent the air, and human bodies as well.

Harry didn't want to open his eyes. He knew he stood a good chance of losing his breakfast. He had been in violent confrontations time after time, but never in a war. After the debris cleared, he was going to have to look upon the sight that even writers like Hemingway would not be able to do justice.

He heard a gurgling noise not far from him and looked to the side. Cliff Marsland was already vomiting. Those men of Hung Fat's whom he could see, getting up from the floor, looked grim as Death.

There was another voice, one which he could not mistake. "Get up, Harry Vincent. Margo Lane is not yet found."

"Oh, God," muttered Harry, and forced himself to look in that direction. It was worse than he thought.

The Boss was already clearing a way. The men of Hung Fat were helping him.

Harry turned his head away. He couldn't do this. He could kill, but he couldn't do this.

Within a few minutes, enough of the passageway was cleared. He looked at the Shadow. The Boss's black clothing was streaked with blood. Somehow, that was almost as sickening as the torn bodies which littered the floor about the stairwell.

The Shadow stared back at him.

Cliff Marsland materialized at his shoulder. "Come on, Harry. I'll help."

"I'm afraid you're gonna have to," said Harry. With Cliff holding his arm, Harry Vincent stepped towards the stairwell. The Shadow was already descending, Hung Fat and his men behind him. The two of them melded into the line of Asiatics going towards the basement.

He didn't know how long he could keep doing this. Even for the Boss, he just didn't know.

-S-

Margo Lane had heard the latest explosion, almost losing her hearing at the report. She had fallen off the bench, flat on her face, from the impact. When it was over, she gasped in breath and wondered whose bomb it had been. She prayed God that it hadn't taken the Shadow's life.

Then there was the sound of a key ratcheting in the lock of her cell. Could it be Lamont? Or one of his operatives? Would it be too soon for one of them to have reached her?

No. The face at the door bars was that of one of Khan's men. She got up and went under the bench, holding her water jug to throw at him.

The man threw the door open, stood there breathing, held a gun in his right hand. She could see that his face was bleeding from a gash on his left cheek. He was staring at her.

"You," he rasped, in English. "All because of you."

He had time to raise the gun before a black-sleeved arm went around his neck and a black-gloved hand grasped his gun wrist.

In barely enough time to perceive it, Margo heard the crack of a neck being broken, and turned her head away. The thud of a body hitting the floor told her the struggle was over. She heard the sound of it being dragged to one side of the door, without.

Margo dared to look up at the figure she knew would be standing in the doorway of her cell. He was there, in his black slouch hat, suit, and cloak, the red muffler around his lower face, his eyes looking grim and tired. Gingerly, she got up from her spot below the bench.

"Margo," said the Shadow. She got up, about to embrace him.

Then she saw him stiffen and look to the side, pointing his .45. She heard another familiar voice, but could not see the speaker from her vantage point.

"Shoot me, Shadow," said Shiwan Khan, "and I drop this vial."

The Shadow did not shoot.

To be continued…


	6. Chapter 6

**The Shadow:**

 **Final Shadows**

Part 6

by DarkMark

"Shoot if you dare," said Shiwan Khan. "But first, ask your woman about the contents of this vial."

The Shadow's eyes and gun hand did not waver. Some of Hung Fat's men had made their way down already. "Stand fast," he told them.

Margo Lane said, "He told me that he's got a disease culture that could wipe out the entire continent. That could be it in his hand."

"He bluffs," snapped one of the gangsters.

"I have never known Shiwan Khan to bluff," the Shadow replied.

The Asian mastermind smiled. "My conditions are simple. Let me leave unharmed, or I will release the plague. If I am allowed escape, I will send you word, Shadow, of where I may be found. But you and you alone will be allowed to come."

The one hood who had called Khan a bluffer tightened his finger on the trigger of his gun. Before he could shoot, the Shadow moved his arm and shot him in the bicep. The hood cried out, dropped his gun, and grabbed his wounded arm.

Hung Fat went to his man and tore the sleeve from the shirt of a fallen enemy to wrap up his wound. "Be glad," said the gangboss. "He could just as easily have put it through the heart. I would have shot you in the head."

"Speak, Shadow," said Shiwan Khan. "I have little to lose. I am already dying."

"I should like to accelerate the process," said the Shadow.

"You will have your chance," Khan confirmed. "But not in this charnel house. I would have our last battle on a more suitable stage."

Harry Vincent, wet with sweat and other people's blood, said, "Give me five minutes alone with him, Boss. Then you won't need any last battle."

"He'd tear you apart, Harry," said Cliff Marsland. "Pipe down."

The Shadow kept his eyes locked with Shiwan Khan for another long moment. Then he said, "Go."

The mastermind smiled viciously. "We understand each other, Ying Ko. But then again, we always did."

Shiwan Khan stepped through the press of men, not seeming perturbed in any way. Before he got to the stairs, Hung Fat said, "Let me precede you. My men might shoot you on sight."

"It is considerate of you to provide escort," said Shiwan Khan. "Lead the way."

The Shadow, Margo, Harry, Cliff, and Hung Fat's soldiers watched the two ascend the staircase, leaving red footprints. A few seconds after they were out of sight, Harry Vincent punched the wall. "Dammit," he said. "Dammit!"

"Control yourself, Harry," said the Shadow. "We have regained Margo. Shiwan Khan is flushed from hiding and has lost most of his men."

"But he's getting away!"

"Only for the moment," the Shadow answered. "We shall meet again soon."

Vincent turned away and swore under his breath. The Shadow officially ignored it. There was work to be done. The bodies had to be disposed of somehow. Hung Fat would see to that. As Lamont Cranston, he would have to speak with Margo. As the Shadow, he would have to pay a visit to an old ally.

Whether that ally liked it or not.

Then he would have to plan for the next engagement with Shiwan Khan. Plan, and wait.

-S-

Commissioner Weston was at least relieved when he heard that Margo Lane was safe. Lamont Cranston promised to consult with him shortly. But before that, he and Margo had to have a private talk, so they did.

In Cranston's apartment, Margo Lane stretched out on the couch, her high heels off, and sighed in relaxation for the first time since leaving him and being abducted. "I knew you'd come," she said. "You always do. But thank you for it."

Lamont was wearing a smoking jacket, pants, and slippers. He looked tired. "Men died to save you, Margo. What do you think of that?"

She chose her words carefully. "I regret it very much. Even if they were killers, crooks...it doesn't make me feel good."

He sat in an easy chair and stared at her.

"I've been in hell for the past few days, worrying about me, worrying about the baby, and worrying about you," said Margo. "And Shiwan Khan. I didn't face any bullets, but it wasn't easy."

"It never is," said Lamont. "We both know that."

She sat up and looked straight at him. "I want to know about us, Lamont."

"I want to know about Khan."

"About US, Lamont!"

"Margo!" For all his mufti, Margo thought he looked very much like the Shadow at that moment. "The fate of everyone in this land is at stake. That overrides any concerns we may have with ourselves, or even our unborn child. Tell me."

She looked at him sullenly.

"But about us, Margo, I've come to a decision," he continued.

Warily, Margo Lane looked at him. "Yes?"

"If we conclude this case successfully, if the disease culture is not unleashed, and if Shiwan Khan is brought to bay..."

She thought the atomic bomb could have been dropped on Hiroshima in the time it took him to finish the sentence.

"...then I will marry you," he said.

Margo Lane sighed in relief. "At least you might say it like you loved me, Lamont."

"I thought you understood that."

She shook her head. "When I met you, there was always a difference between you and the Shadow. I could count on you being a human. Now, I'm less and less sure."

"Do you want me as a husband?"

"Always," she said. "Always."

"Then you will accept me?"

"Oh, yes," she said, softly.

He put his hands behind his head and looked at the floor.

"Tell me about Shiwan Khan," he said.

-S-

"So," said Commissioner Weston. "I've got corpses enough to keep the coroner busy for a week. Signs that some stiffs may have been dragged away before we got there. Bullets and bullet holes enough to make it look like the Battle of the Wilderness. Miss Lane. Lamont. Tell me what in hell happened."

"I was captured by Shiwan Khan," said Margo. "There was a war between him and members of a Tong, I guess. The Tong people let me go after the fight."

"Did you ever find out why he wanted you in the first place?" asked Weston.

She shook her head. "He thought I was involved with the Shadow. At least that's what he said."

"Did you find out what he was planning?"

"Not entirely. I suppose it was something horrible."

Weston cracked his knuckles. "Couldn't exactly have been a church social, what with the number of bodies he left behind."

Cranston tried to look impassive, but he held Margo's hand as she affected a shiver. "I never want to see that sort of thing again. Never."

"What about Dr. Roy Tam? How did he figure into it?" said Weston.

"I don't know," said Margo.

"And the Shadow wasn't involved in this?"

"I don't know. I didn't see him," Margo replied.

Weston moved closer to Margo. "Miss Lane, are you aware there are criminal penalties for giving misleading information to the police?"

She nodded. "Yes, Commissioner. But I'm telling the truth."

"Believe her, Commissioner," said Cranston. "I'll vouch for any statement she makes."

The official made a face. "That's really going to help. We've got so many dead Chinese thugs that the post office walls in Chinatown are going to be half-bare. I don't have lead one yet. What Miss Lane has given me doesn't amount to enough to help."

"I'm sorry," said Margo. "I've given you all that I can."

"All right. You can go, both of you. But if I find that you've been holding out on me, even the fact that we're friends isn't going to be enough. Is that clear?"

"Eminently clear, Commissioner," said Lamont. "Thank you for all your efforts."

"Get out of here," said Weston, waving them to the door.

Lamont and Margo left the office. Weston looked after them, waited for about five minutes, and then called in Joe Cardona. "What've you got?" asked the chief.

"Not enough," said Cardona.

The look on Weston's face told Cardona he'd better give him more.

"I managed to keep him in sight all the way to Chinatown," Cardona explained. "Then out of the clear blue, this Chink woman stumbles right in front of me and I damn near fall over her. She tries to help me up and we both fall down again. I'm tryin' to get loose and she comes up with me and starts apologizin' all over the place in pidgin, says she's FOB and doesn't know her way around, and we're attractin' a crowd, and, hell...I tried to get loose from her, but..."

"But you were a gentleman," grumbled Weston.

"But she was a leech. By the time I shook her off, Cranston was gone. I spent all the rest of the day there, most of the night, too, looking up and down for him. Nowhere. Gone."

The commissioner massaged the back of his neck. "Why doesn't that surprise me, Joe? Why the hell doesn't anything surprise me on this case anymore? Never mind. There's better things to use you on. Go back to your desk."

"Thank you, sir."

Weston glared at Cardona. The tough cop made a strategic withdrawal.

-S-

If Burbank had an existence outside the four walls of his office, none of the Shadow's other agents knew of it. Presumably he slept sometime. Possibly he was an agoraphobe. All anyone knew is that anytime they put in a call to his number, he personally answered the phone. Every time.

More than that, only the Shadow knew.

"Summon all the agents," said the Shadow to Burbank, over the phone. "We meet at 8:00 tonight at the Cobalt Club. No absence will be permitted. That is all."

The loyal communicator began dialing the numbers as soon as his chief hung up.

The network of agents began filtering into the Club around 6:30. Some of them had not been seen in the group for quite some time. More than one of them looked ill-at-ease in the formal clothes they had to wear to get admittance. But when they were escorted into the back room reserved by Lamont Cranston, all of them recognized each other as a band of brothers and sisters.

Rutledge Mann was there, a financier and investment expert whom the Shadow had once saved from suicide after his business failed. He had been provided by the master with a new business and a new life, and in turn gave him his loyalty, his access into the moneyed circles he needed, and became his direct communicator to the various agents as needed. He sat with the others and seemed not at all out of place in the Cobalt Club.

Hawkeye was beside him. A denizen of the underworld and a frequent partner of Cliff Marsland, he was one of the Shadow's most trusted men. Frequently he had provided information or more than that to tip the scales against their opponents. Cliff had greeted him with a hug, and Harry shook his hand.

Dr. Rupert Sayre was another new arrival. The Shadow had saved his life in times past. In turn, he had saved a wounded Shadow, and became one of the few to know both the face under his muffler and the Shadow's origin. Now, he was the master's personal physician as well as an agent. He fit in, but he was somewhat uneasy.

Niles Crofton even managed to make it. He was one of the Shadow's seldom-used agents, a pilot whom the dark avenger had rescued from a criminal setup and who went on to serve him when needed. He had his hat in his lap and sat quietly, watching the others.

Then there was Myra Reldon, a trusted agent and a mistress of disguise. She was adept at making herself appear to be Asian, and had often served the Shadow in Chinatown intrigues. Most recently, she had served by stepping into the path of Joe Cardona.

The most imposing was Jericho Druke. He was a large and powerful black man whose life had been saved by the Shadow and, subsequently, lent his strength to the master's endeavors when needed. He was a great asset to the band, and had proven his worth and ability time and again. If the management of the Cobalt Club had any inkling of that, perhaps they might have allowed him to enter through the front door.

Completing the set were Margo Lane, Harry Vincent, Cliff Marsland, Clyde Burke, Moe Shrevnitz, and Dr. Roy Tam. The lot of them sat around a pair of tables pushed together, with a space at the end reserved for the master. He had not yet come, which was not surprising.

"What time is it gettin' to be, Harry?" asked Cliff.

Vincent looked at his watch. "2 of. Don't worry, he'll be on time."

Dr. Sayre turned to Margo. "How are you coming along, my dear? Still bearing up?"

She smiled. "I'm doing fine, thank you. How are you?"

"I'm all right," he said. "But I'd think a woman in your condition would be exempt from—"

"My condition!" Margo looked at him with astonishment. "I never said anything about it. How did you know? What is this, Doctor?"

Sayre cocked his head a bit. "My dear, believe me. The Shadow isn't the only one who knows."

Before Margo could frame a reply, the lights went out.

They came back up only a bit, and the occupants of the room saw that the place at the head of the table was no longer empty.

"Welcome, one and all," said the Shadow. "Our time is indeed running short. Shiwan Khan is still loose, still in possession of a virus culture that could lay waste to America—perhaps to the world. From this moment until the resolution, your lives are not your own. Agreed?"

There was silence throughout the room, as he knew there would be.

"We must not fail, and we shall not," the Shadow went on. "Either Khan or I will fall, or perhaps both of us. But his plan must be shattered. Even if all of us go down in battle, we must triumph. It will require the greatest effort of all of you. But I well know of what you are capable. That is why you are my agents. My trusted agents.

"And yes...my allies."

Margo almost caught her breath at that. The Shadow had never been so open with his subordinates before. Was he becoming... No. This was the Shadow. Whatever Lamont Cranston might be, he was not the Master of Darkness.

"These are your assignments," he continued. "Obey them implicitly. The fate of a country and a world is in our hands tonight. Shiwan Khan is dying, and fears no retribution should he loose his germs of death. We must make certain that the only one Death draws his circle around is Khan himself. Now listen, and listen well."

In as few words as possible, the Shadow told each member of the team what his or her place would be in the operation. When he was done, his gleaming eyes looked out upon the lot of them in the red light of his Girasol ring.

"I must leave you now," he said. "I will contact you when necessary. That is all."

The lights went low again and came up an instant later. The Shadow was nowhere to be seen.

"I hate it when he does that," said Harry Vincent.

"Not as much as me, Harry," murmured Margo Lane. "Not nearly as much as me."

-S-

No one was supposed to be able to get up to the 86th floor of the Empire State Building without permission of the man who lived there. That permission was given to his aides, his cousin, and those whose cases he deigned to hear. Anybody else, in theory and in practice, was detected and ejected long before he got to the sanctum sanctorum.

Without turning around from his glass maze of retorts, tubes, and chemicals, the large man said, "Stay where you are."

A resonant voice said, "It has been awhile, has it not, Clark Savage?"

The man of bronze turned his head and peered into the gloom at the back of his laboratory. He could pick out the figure who lurked there. For most men, it would have been impossible. He was not most men.

"What do you want?"

"Aid of sorts," said the Shadow, not moving forward. "This time, your expertise in medicine and chemistry."

"Explain," said Savage.

"An enemy of mine is at large," the Shadow said. "Shiwan Khan. You know of him?"

"I've heard his name."

"Then you know of what he is capable. This time, his weapon is a vial of disease germs. I am assured that, once loosed, it will wipe out the population of North America, at the least."

There was silence for a second. "And you want me to help find him?"

"No, Clark Savage. I want you to be able to concoct an antidote to this culture of death."

"That would be impossible unless I knew exactly what it was."

"I know that," said the Shadow. "I hope to bring it to you, intact. Once in your hands, it will be up to you to deal with it."

"I understand," Savage said. "But you need more than a lab hand in this sort of thing."

"With all due respect, if I am unable to resolve this, the two of us would do no better."

Clark Savage bent his head a bit. "You have my aid, in whatever capacity you ask."

"I am grateful, Clark Savage. Is it true you have given up your life of adventure?"

Savage almost smiled. "All life is an adventure. I've just taken time to seek it in a different manner. When will I hear from you?"

"When you must," said the Shadow. "Farewell."

The Shadow was gone.

A trilling noise filled the air. Clark Savage brought the lights up and found no trace of his visitor.

There was nothing else to do at present except get back to his experiment.

-S-

Shiwan Khan hardly regretted the fact that he had to kill the Society underlings that had attempted to trace him after his leaving the asylum. He just regretted the fact that it had cost him time and effort. He had little to waste of either, now, and his supply of the former was growing criminally short.

But the final battle between himself and the Shadow had to be framed precisely. True, the vial could be dropped practically anywhere. The destruction of the Shadow, though, must be performed with care, art, and audacity. Nothing less would be courteous to such a foe.

It was fitting. The two greatest men of the age, ending the age together, with themselves. Only one would die a few minutes before the other. That, in a way, was regrettable. Both of them could, theoretically, see the end of one era of Man and the dawning of whatever came next, in their final moments. That would be comradeship.

None but the Shadow would be fit to see it with him.

However, if they both saw it together, how would Fate recognize a clear winner?

Regrettably, the Shadow must die first, and then the world.

Shiwan Khan picked up a telephone and dialed a number.

"Burbank," said the voice on the other end.

"This is Shiwan Khan," he said. "I have a message for the Shadow."

To be continued…


	7. Chapter 7

**The Shadow:**

 **Final Shadows**

Part 7

by DarkMark

The Shadow had been astounded by the audacity of it.

That Shiwan Khan would so openly advertise his plumbing of the Shadow's secrets by contacting Burbank through a number thought only known to the dark avenger and his aides—it was almost unbelievable. Except that where Khan was concerned, almost all things were believable.

Khan had studied under some of the same Masters as the Shadow, but had bent himself to another path. What caused it was something even the Shadow never knew: greed, tragedy, or a nature that simply bent towards personal power rather than that of the common good. Possibly none of those reasons. Perhaps it was Khan's failing that led the Masters to take Kent Allard in all those decades past.

Even though the Shadow did not age as other men, he felt the weight of his many wars as keenly as if he had aged at twice the normal rate.

Did he have the right to drag Margo, and his unborn son, through any more of this? Or his agents, who had labored for him for decades now?

Those questions would have to be answered after the battle with Shiwan Khan. Perhaps he would not be there to answer them. But he had to make certain that Khan would not be there, either. And that his germs from hell remained leashed.

For those reasons, the Shadow went more heavily armed than usual. He toted four .45's rather than his usual two. Around his belt, hidden under his cloak, he had hung several small grenades. A bulletproof vest, as lightweight as the ones favored by Doc Savage, was donned underneath his black shirt. A steel skullcap was on underneath his slouch hat.

With all of that, he knew that Shiwan Khan would still be able to kill him.

But this confrontation was inevitable, he supposed. Since the first day he met Khan, in 1939, he had realized that if the Shadow had an antithesis, Khan was it.

Now the Shadow had received word of where he was to meet Khan for the final conflict. He had given his agents their final instructions, and set out for the rezendevous. His war chariot was a motorized boat, its engines muffled to the point of near-silence. It was night, with a half-moon shining above. The Shadow looked and saw his battlefield ahead in the distance, a light shining from high above.

Bedloe's Island. Home of the Statue of Liberty.

The Shadow wondered how many men Shiwan Khan had already killed of the guards on duty there.

The statue was lighted well enough for him to cut his lights as he approached. No telling if that would deceive his enemy. Doubtful at best. But in this battle, it was best not to come on with banners blazing and trumpets blaring.

Docking was simple enough. The Shadow emerged on the island, guns in fists, eyes searching for traps. Khan would not have had much time to prepare for his arrival. Guards were on duty at all times. They would have to be eliminated, taking up some of the Golden Master's valuable time. But Khan could accomplish much in a small span.

Such as, perhaps, the end of America.

Quickly, the Shadow stepped across the grassy expanse towards the Statue of Liberty itself. It rose, impossibly tall, lighting itself and its surroundings with its torch, probably limning his own figure. It was impossible for him not to feel a rush of sentiment at the sight of it, which gave way to a feeling of anger at Khan's choice of symbolism.

Against the door at the base of the Statue, a human form leaned. Its head drooped downward. A uniformed guard, dead. Something was at its feet, partially propping it up.

A large tape recorder.

A trap or a taunt, but it had to be dared.

The Shadow covered the distance to the dead guard in seconds, examined the man without touching him, saw his throat had been cut. Either the man or the tape machine might be connected to a trip wire. Nonetheless... The Shadow's black-gloved hands grasped the tape recorder and tossed it carefully a few feet away. It landed hard on its base. No explosion.

The guard stared at him with dead eyes. He scrutinized the man's feet, grasped one by the ankle, and yanked quickly and hard. The body slid down the door and struck the concrete of the walkway. Nothing more than that. The Shadow moved it to one side of the door.

Then he went to the recorder, gingerly flipped the play switch to On, and waited.

Within seconds he heard the voice of Shiwan Khan.

"I am gratified for your arrival. There is no trap yet. Please acend. I will meet you within."

The Shadow said nothing. He holstered one of his .45's and kept the other in his right hand, walking to the great well of circular stairs that wound its way up the Statue. Though he examined the area above with the eyes of a hunting falcon, there was no visual sign of Khan.

He also examined the steps, both from their underside and on top, before he proceeded. Despite his caution, he could not prevent a muffled sound when he set his feet upon them.

It was about 1/4 of the journey up there before Shiwan Khan spoke again.

"Do you have any questions remaining about my purpose, Ying Ko? They should be obvious. The Communist Revolution cut me off from much of the source of my power. I fear they know of the White Death, the culture my scientists developed. I could not keep them from finding it much longer, I fear. That would mean another hand than I would wield it. Totally unacceptible. Plus, there is the fact of my own infirmity. I would not live many more months, even if we did not meet. But those, of course, are not the real reasons why I am here."

The Shadow kept onward and upward.

"The real reason, Ying Ko, is that our time is ending. The facts of your lover's pregnancy and my cancer are only the most visual signs of it. The champions of your side are inactive now...Savage, the Avenger, all the rest. The champions of my side are mostly dead, among them John Sunlight, the Wasp, the Hand...you know the names as well as I. There is no way to prophecy whether or not others will take our place, even if this encounter had not happened. But there is no place for the likes of us anymore. No arena for our battles.

"If I succeed, there will be perhaps no more heroes on either side. There may be no need for the accursed Atomic Bomb, or whatever they fashion after that. The world will possibly be a better place because of my work. Of course, should you win...well, the fate of the world will most likely be in the same hands. And is that a desirable outcome? Considering what they have done to it, in all the time we have fought like schoolboys on a playground?

"No, Shadow. Time is a slate which periodically must be wiped clean. Tonight is the night of our erasure. I am at the top of this structure. The White Death is atop a bomb which, if it is given time to detonate, will blast the particles of its form into the air. Once that is done, it will inevitably spread to the mainland, be breathed in by the masses of New York City, and begin the work of cleansing the planet. If any survive, they will be stronger for the experience. Such a world will belong to the strong. And we, Ying Ko...we will be their fathers."

The Shadow still remained silent.

Khan spoke again. "I told you there would be no traps, Shadow. I did not say that there would be no weapons. Observe."

An object dropped from the top of the stairwell. After a few seconds, it burst into flame. Terrible, scorching heat, not unlike that of thermite. The Shadow looked up at its grasping yellow-red fingers for an instant.

Then he swung himself below the stairs, holding onto a single step with his gloved fingertips, feeling the fiery substance spatter above and around him, part of it dropping on his cloak and setting it afire. He did not dare put it out just yet.

It was over in seconds, but the steps still sizzled for a time. The Shadow kept hold of the step with one hand. With the other he reached down and ripped away the flaming part of his cloak, letting it fall to the floor far below. Then he swung the lower part of his body up, taking hold of the railing with his feet, twisting himself upwards, finally straddling it with his legs. He inched upward until he judged that he had gotten past the fire-doused part of the stairway, whereupon he stepped back onto it again and continued.

"Excellent," said Khan. "No less than what I would have expected of you."

There was nothing else to do but plod on and wait for the next attack. A few minutes later, it came.

A sphere of flimsy-looking material dropped down from the top of the Statue. Some feet above the Shadow, it hit the railing and burst. From its interior, a liquid splashed out that contacted the metal of the railing and part of the steps below it and sizzled. Within seconds, that which it had hit was dissolved.

Acid.

More such spheres were falling.

The Shadow took his other .45 in hand and began shooting.

The shots burst sphere after sphere. Acid spattered the walls, the steps, the railing, and, occasionally, his clothes. The dark avenger pulled the front brim of his slouch hat even lower to protect his eyes. A few stray drops hit his hat and sent up acrid smoke. He had to twist to dodge one of the acid spheres, which ended up spurting its cargo on a step below him and eating up three-quarters of it.

Then the barrage ceased.

He looked before and above him. There were holes in the steps and breaks in the railing, but he thought he could travel it. If he was very careful.

"You are still there, Ying Ko. Masterful. Just consider these things tests of the Hero. I would not insult you by withholding them."

The Shadow paused to reload his guns and then continued upward.

"One more trap, Shadow," said Shiwan Khan. "One more trial for the hero. Behold."

He couldn't stop himself from looking up.

There was a tremendous flash of light and even his upraised arm was not fast enough to shield his eyes.

Blinded, the Shadow wondered dimly what Khan's follow-up would be.

The voice from above was heard again. "Now, Ying Ko, see if you can avoid that which strikes from the shadows. If you disappoint me...well, such is life."

His eyes temporarily useless, the Shadow strained to hear the weapon Khan would unleash. At the same time, he pondered the mastermind's words. "That which strikes from the shadows." The trap would have to be a living thing. And the choice of words...

Very faintly, he heard a slither on metallic steps.

Khan had undoubtedly set loose a poisonous snake. With his flair for the deadly, the reptile had to be one of the deadliest alive. Probably large, as well.

Most likely, a king cobra.

The choices came quickly to the Shadow's deductive mind. The threat had to be heard, smelled, sensed, and accurately positioned in reference to himself so that it could be handled just before it struck. Not a reassuring picture, even in his judgment.

He heard the coiled enemy coming nearer, dropping a bit of itself down another step. And then another.

"For one of your capacities, Ying Ko, detecting my weapon should be simple," said Khan. "Indeed, a child's task. Unless, of course, you are too impaired by my opening gambit. Yes, that could be a possiblity...but one hopes not."

Khan's talk was an attempt to cover up the sound of the snake. The Shadow had to do what he could to filter his foe's voice from what else he heard. That, combined with estimating the speed of the serpent as it descended, assuming it followed a more or less regular pace...which, of course, was hardly a given...

He waited, still as an ebon statue.

Second after second after second...

There. A disturbance in the air, not far before him. A hiss, as of a mouth being opened...must be done precisely...not more than one shot would be allowed...wait...wait...

He fired.

There was a stronger hiss, one of pain, and the tubular body rushing past him in a death-lunge as he moved to the right, just enough to feel a scaly side barely strike his arm. But thankfully not with its fangs.

The monster fell past him, off the steps, to impact some seconds later and many feet below.

"Well done," said Khan. "You have earned your passage, Ying Ko. I await you."

The Shadow opened his eyes again. Darkness, but shapes beginning to resolve themselves. A few seconds later, he began his upward progress again. Impaired or not, he had to continue.

By the time he went much further, the Shadow's eyes were almost back to normal.

Step after step. The spiral reaching upward like Jacob's ladder, only to something at the opposite extreme. The Shadow climbed, his pace accelerating. He kept his hat brim pulled a bit lower, in case Khan should try another light-flash. But, somehow, he trusted his enemy's word. The only threat he would probably face after this was Shiwan Khan himself.

That would be the deadliest test of all.

Khan's words had long since ceased. The silence was less of a relief than he thought it would be. Detecting the Golden Master might be more difficult than doing the same for his reptilian associate.

But if there was any man who was best suited to it in the world, it was the Shadow.

So it went, up the remaining steps. The bulk of Lady Liberty stretched far below him. A body that fell would be hard-pressed to grasp a railing for safety without tearing his arm out of its socket. There was no guarantee that there would be a winner from this conflict at all.

The hell with that. There was a fight to be fought, and he would undertake it. That was all that had ever been, and that was all that would be this time.

Even if it was the last.

He rounded a last bend of the spiral and emerged into the platform that was the interior of the Statue's crown, ringed on one side with windows. Enough light spilled in from outside to limn the figure of the one who stood before him, in golden robe and hat.

"Welcome, Ying Ko," said Shiwan Khan, with a calm expression.

The Shadow pointed two guns at his enemy and spoke.

"Where is the bomb?"

Khan pointed upward. "There. On the top of the Statue's head. A few minutes remain. You must forgive me for not bringing a timepiece."

The Shadow opened up with both guns.

The very air before Khan seemed to sprout shatter-lines. But it did not itself give way. Khan smiled.

"Do you think I would expose myself without safeguards, Ying Ko? This sheet of transparent material is virtually indestructible. Face me without your guns, and I will discard it. You must pass me to reach the bomb."

Without a word, the Shadow dropped his two weapons. Khan said, "The ones in your cloak, as well." Two more guns hit the floor.

True to his word, Shiwan Khan reached forth his hands, took hold of the glassy substance, and swept it aside. It fell down the spiral of steps with a strange noise.

As it did, the Shadow sprang and Shiwan Khan met him.

Fingers went for eyes, long fingernails slashed at facial flesh, knees sought groins. Those were the least deadly of the techniques the enemies used on each other.

Arms, hands, elbows, feet, knees, legs, even heads were employed in the most terrible fashion prescribed by over a dozen martial arts. Many of them were known only to the Masters who had schooled both men. The defense against each foray had to be instantaneous to avoid death. The strike, the defense, the counterstrike. This was the pace as both the Shadow and Shiwan Khan battled each other around the circular walk inside the Statue of Liberty's head.

No word was spoken. None was needed. The two of them spoke with their eyes, with their frustrated breaths, with their bodily actions. They pressed each other, using the walls, the railing, even the floor, for advantage.

Blood flowed.

Then, suddenly, the Shadow took a blow that Khan was certain he could have avoided, if he wished. It spun the dark avenger away, onto his back, along the walkway, seemingly helpless.

That is, until his fingers reached one of his .45's, and then another.

Khan's eyes widened. "You...would do me dishonor?"

The Shadow only met his eyes for a second, and then fired.

The window he had aimed at shattered.

A scream of torture arose from Shiwan Khan's throat. But he was too late to stop the Shadow from scrambling out the newmade portal.

There was nothing to do but follow him.

As quick as Shiwan Khan was, he was a step behind the Shadow. The man in black had impossibly grasped one of the spikes on Lady Liberty's crown and swung himself onto the top of her head. But the fight had done him some injury. He winced as he set his feet on the coppery hair of the statue, and bent down for only an instant. Regrettably, that was long enough.

Another figure had clambered onto Liberty's green-rusted head, and managed to stand upright. From his robe he drew two guns. Twin .45's.

"Perhaps it was unwise of you to carry four weapons this time, instead of two," said Khan.

The Shadow said nothing, but merely looked at his enemy. Looked deep into his eyes.

Khan stared back, and tried to pull both triggers, or either.

He found his fingers moving as slowly as the progress of a glacier.

Hypnosis. It had to be. Khan cursed himself for not expecting the most refined weapon in the Shadow's arsenal. But he was no stranger to the mesmeric arts, himself. He resisted with his very being, and looked back into the Shadow's eyes, forcing his own power into the dark avenger's brain.

The Shadow was standing, now, pointing both guns at him. But he, too, was not firing.

As the wind blew cloak and robe about them, impossibly high above the world, the Shadow and Shiwan Khan fought their last duel.

And just beyond them, a round, flat, magnetized bomb with a vial strapped to its top edged ever closer to detonation.

The two stood like statues. But beyond and above them, in not too many seconds' time, there came a noise of a powerful rotor.

In a helicopter, Margo Lane peered out through infra-red sights fitted to binoculars, and cradled a high-powered rifle on her lap. Harry Vincent, in the pilot's seat, said, "Well? What do you see?"

Margo, not lowering the binoculars, said, "The Shadow. And Shiwan Khan. They're just standing there, pointing guns at each other. They're not moving."

"Well, whoopee doo," snapped Harry. "Shoot Khan."

"No," said Margo. "If I do that, he might open up on the Shadow. Khan might kill him."

Vincent said, "I hate to be the one to point it out, Margo. But there just happens to be a bomb with a bunch of stuff on it that could kill everybody in North America if it gets loose. What are you going to do about that?"

She bit her lips and prayed. Harry said, "Well?"

Margo turned to him with a venomous look. "Give me another minute, Harry. Just one more!"

"I don't have ten more seconds!"

"Who has the gun, here?"

Vincent looked at her grimly. "Damn it to hell."

"Give me thirty seconds, Harry. If neither one of them moves...I'll try and shoot Khan."

Vincent swore. "All the others are in place. The Coast Guard's been notified. Even the president is in on it by now. Hung Fat's goons are keeping watch on the perimeter. We're the only ones that can do anything about it. And you won't!"

"No," said Margo. "There's somebody else who can do something. And he must."

"Twenty-three seconds," said Harry Vincent. "And counting."

The seconds passed by, as the helicopter's light picked out the forms of the Shadow, Shiwan Khan, and the bomb atop the Statue's crown.

Both men seemed deadlocked. And both knew that Shiwan Khan could win, simply by keeping both of them paralyzed for the requisite amount of seconds.

Perhaps that was why the red Girasol ring began to flare up more brightly than it had in any incident Harry and Margo had ever seen.

"Margo," said Harry.

"Shut up," said Margo.

"Margo, you have to shoot," said Harry.

"I said shut up, Harry!"

"Margo, damn it, take the controls and I'll shoot him myself!"

Harry found himself looking down the barrel of a rifle a second later.

"Don't ask me if I'll do it, Harry," said Margo, softly. "Don't dare ask if I will."

Harry Vincent said nothing.

Below on the Statue of Liberty, a visible change was taking place on the tableau, if only one was close enough to see it.

Sweat was starting to spurt from Shiwan Khan's brow.

The Shadow gazed into his eyes with renewed wrath.

Before his power, Shiwan Khan began to tremble. His hands visibly shook, yet he could not pull the triggers of his guns. The Khan's mental powers were enormous. He had studied at the very feet of the Masters who had taught Kent Allard, so many decades ago, the secrets he would need to become the defender of justice in the new century.

Yes, Khan had studied well, and learned much.

But there was much he had not learned, and that was only known to one devoted to the opposition of evil.

One who could only come between the victimizers, the predators, and their intended victims...

...as a Shadow.

For a terrible second, Shiwan Khan's eyes went blank, the pupil and iris becoming hidden from sight.

In that second, the Shadow's mighty guns opened up.

He emptied them into the figure before him, blasting the guns from Khan's wounded hands, tattooing his chest and legs and arms with bullets, blowing the hat from his head, knocking the Golden Master prone on the Statue's head, his blood dripping down the side of her face.

The Khan fell, and did not rise.

Quickly, the Shadow sprang beyond him to the bomb. The vial of deadly organisms was fastened securely to it, but not too well for the Shadow to pry free. He did so with a powerful wrench, and, finally, held the small vial securely in one black-gloved hand.

There was a voice behind him.

"Ying Ko..."

The Shadow whirled, saw the bleeding figure of Shiwan Khan on his knees, coming at him again, still capable of deadliness, the bullet-proof vest now visible beneath the tatters of his tunic.

With a sudden movement, the master of darkness deposited the vial in a pocket of his cloak. Then, avoiding Khan's swipe, he put both hands on the bomb, tore it loose from its bolts, and held it one hand.

His other hand went to Khan's neck and put terrific pressure on his foe's throat.

As Shiwan Khan choked and tried to bring up his wounded arms to resist, the Shadow rammed the bomb beneath the belt-sash of Khan's robe. Then he shifted his grip and hefted his foe over his head, illuminated by the light of the helicopter nearby.

"It is the end of an age, indeed," said the Shadow, quietly. "Farewell, Shiwan Khan."

The only sound that came from the Golden Master's mouth was a scream that belied his control. The Shadow's mighty arms propelled him out into the darkness. He arced away from the Statue, away from the vial of death, away from the Shadow.

And he fell.

The explosion, a few seconds later, was truly impressive. Its waves of sound and force shook the helicopter, caused consternation among the converging Coast Guard ships, was commented on with shouts from Hung Fat's men on the mainland, and left a scar of smoke and blood, but no permanent damage, on Lady Liberty's tunic.

Shiwan Khan was no more.

The Shadow barely kept his perch. He fell full-length across Liberty's metallic hair. But his hand still clutched the vial of White Death, forbidding it to roll away or break apart. He forced himself to remain conscious. This was, perhaps, his hardest battle from the night.

In the helicopter, Margo Lane turned the rifle away from Harry Vincent. "Lower the ladder, Harry. I'm going to pick him up."

"You've got it," said Harry, with a smile.

-S-

Clark Savage had been on alert throughout the entire crisis, keeping contact with matters through Coast Guard radio, hoping against hope that his one-time ally would be enough for the task. When the battle was done, he trilled for a time, then returned to his laboratory. That was where the three interlopers found him. He didn't mind. In fact, he expected them.

The Shadow was in the middle of the three, supported on either side by a woman and a man. Savage knew both of them from times past. They looked at him, hopefully.

The dark avenger had something in his right hand. "I have something you must deal with, Clark Savage," he said.

He didn't have long to wait. Savage was before him in an instant, receiving the vial carefully from his hands. The bronze man took it quickly to a container designed especially for it, popped it inside, and sealed it. Then he looked at the cloaked man, who was sagging between Margo and Harry.

"That's not the only thing I have to take care of," he said, as he took the unconscious Shadow from their arms.

-S-

It took some time for Lamont Cranston's wounds to heal. Margo Lane informed Commissioner Weston he had gotten them in retaliation from Shiwan Khan. Dr. Clark Savage, Jr., who was seeing to Cranston's recovery in the top five stories of the Empire State Building, backed up Margo's story. Sensing there was more to it than that, but unable to do a damn thing to prove it, Weston thanked both of them for their cooperation.

How Savage ultimately disposed of the disease culture is a secret lost to the ages, but dispose of it he did. The government did not want to just take his word for it, but ultimately, they had to. Savage would not allow its secrets to pass into the hands of even the men in Washington, D. C. Furthermore, he had not learned them himself. He did not want to. Under polygraph, he confirmed this. The government made threats, but ultimately did nothing. Clark Savage returned to his private practice.

After awhile, the Shadow awoke. There were two people in the room with him. One was Margo Lane. The other was Clark Savage.

"Welcome back," said Savage, with a slight smile.

The Shadow looked at his own body, supine beneath white sheets, at the room surrounding him, and at Margo and Savage. He came to a conclusion. "You know who I am."

"I do," said Savage.

"It's all right, Lamont," said Margo, holding his right hand in both of hers. "He can be trusted."

"I knew that," said Cranston, irritably. "What about the vial?"

"I took care of it," Savage replied. "Nobody will ever know of it again. Not even me."

Cranston sighed, then ventured a smile. "That's good."

After a pause, Savage said, "Khan is definitely dead. Nothing left of him but blood on the Statue of Liberty. But enough to confirm his death. The entire incident is being hushed up, as it should be."

Margo thought she saw a look of wistfulness in Lamont's eyes. But she didn't ask him about it.

"What about Hung Fat?" he asked.

"He phoned a message in to me," Savage reported. "He said he was leaving town, and would appreciate it greatly if you would not seek to follow him. I told him I would pass it along, and I have."

Lamont Cranston considered the news. "Also good," he decided.

After a long pause, Clark Savage said, "What are you going to do now?"

Cranston took in a deep breath. Then he said, "I'm going to get married."

-S-

A week after he was released from Savage's care, Lamont Cranston was married to Margo Lane. Thankfully, she still wasn't yet showing. Of course, the birth of their first child would be less than nine months from their nuptials. But about that, neither Lamont nor Margo really gave a damn.

Not long after that, Harry Vincent, Cliff Marsland, Roy Tam, Myra Reldon, and all the rest were summoned to a room of the Cobalt Club. They found on the table before their seats large amounts of money, more than any of them had ever seen before. The lights went low, and two familiar eyes pierced the darkness.

"You have all served well," said the voice of their master. "Now your service is done. Accept this as a token reward. Farewell."

The lights went up again. Their benefactor was nowhere to be seen.

Harry Vincent felt as though a trapdoor over a very distant floor had opened up under him. "What do we do now? I mean, really...what do we do?"

Cliff ruffled a stack of hundreds with his thumb. "You think he'd want you to come looking for him?"

Harry finally said, "No. I guess he wouldn't."

After many goodbyes were said, the agents of the Shadow filed out of the room, went their separate ways into the night, and wondered if any of them would see each other again.

Or if they would ever again see the Shadow.

-S-

On a veranda at his estate, Lamont Cranston stood in a smoking jacket and looked out at the setting sun.

"The end of an age," he said.

Margo Lane Cranston, her pregant belly showing beneath her robe, sat in a cane chair and looked at her husband. "I think it's more the start of a new one, Lamont."

"Well, both," he said, turning to her with a smile. "Khan was a decent prophet, after all."

When he had come close enough, Margo took Lamont's hand and put it on her stomach. "Can you sense what kind of a child he's going to be? Or she's going to be?"

Cranston shook his head. "Some things are beyond even the Masters, Margo. Or if they could be learned...it might be best not to."

"Are you still going to stick with that name you picked, if it's a boy?"

"Yes. Kent Lane Cranston. And you, if it's a girl?"

"Rebecca Liberty Cranston," she said. "I think it's fitting."

"Quite fitting," he said.

"And, Lamont?"

"What, Margo?"

She looked at him seriously. "I don't want him to be another Shadow."

He only quirked his eyebrow, and then turned away. He began to walk down the steps of the veranda. "Lamont," she said.

He didn't turn around.

Before long, he had passed through the gate in the big stone wall and was gone. She had no fear that he wouldn't come back. Despite it all, she knew that Lamont was adapting admirably to the idea of becoming a father.

But he had not yet given her a response to her statement, as many times as she had asked it. And she wondered if he ever would.

There was, she decided, only one who could answer that question, and perhaps he would never return to answer it. But he would have the answer, if any man did. That disquieted her.

Nothing could be done about it.

Many things are unknown to common humanity. Many things are known to only one, now that Shiwan Khan is dead. And perhaps he would never reveal them, no matter how much she pleaded.

But of those things Man considers unknowable...

...the Shadow knows.

-S-

This one's for Walter Gibson and Jim Steranko.


End file.
